Home Is Where the Haunt Is
by PaperKayak
Summary: When Mabel begins to spend all her time at the home of an elderly neighbor, Dipper becomes suspicious of the old man, and is determined to figure out his secrets before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

"Alright, careful now," Stanford Pines said to his great-niece and great-nephew as they heaved over the doorframe a colorful machine that outstripped them in height by several inches. "This is the last new display, and then we're finished here."

"_We_?" Dipper grunted. "You haven't done a thing, Grunkle Stan!"

"Not true," Stan replied. "I stayed here and made sure you kids didn't break anything while you were bringing everything in."

"See, Dipper?" Mabel said cheerfully. She and her brother rested the machine against a wall in the corner of the room. "I told you we had the easy job."

"Ugh," Dipper grumbled. He stretched out his arms. "I feel like my hands are going to fall off."

Stan laughed. "It's called exercise, kid. You should try it more often."

Mabel giggled and peered up at the machine she and her brother had just brought in, a tall, brightly colored box topped by a clear sphere. "So, what's this machine do?" she asked.

"It's a fortune telling machine," Stan said. He walked over and plugged a cord that had been dangling from the machine into an electric outlet. "See that button on the side? Put a quarter into the slot, press the button, and boom, fortune."

"Ooh! Neat!" Mabel squealed. "Can I have a quarter?"

"Mabel, how'm I gonna make money off this thing if I just give quarters away?"

Mabel nodded and turned expectantly to her brother. With a sigh, Dipper reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and handed it to her. Mabel hurried over to the machine and put the coin in the slot. At the press of the button, a lightbulb lit at the bottom of the sphere and a puff of smoke fill it to its walls. A slip of paper popped out from a slot beneath the orb with a small "ding" sound.

"_You will tell all your friends to visit the Mystery Shack_," Mabel read off the paper.

"That's not a fortune, Grunkle Stan," Dipper said. "That's an advertisement."

"It's written in the future tense, isn't it?" Stan replied. "It counts. And speaking of advertisements, I got another chore for you two."

Dipper groaned. "You're not making us lug in any more new displays, are you? My arms are killing me."

Stan rolled his eyes. "No, Dipper, I see you've met your manual labor limit for the day. Nah, I just need you guys to go around town and hand these out. One for every house." He went behind the counter and pulled out a large cardboard box. Opening the lid, he revealed hundreds of doorhanger brochures, each bearing the words "Gravity Falls Mystery Shack" stamped across in bold letters, right above the Shack's slogan: "We put the 'fun' in 'No Refunds'."

He set the box down beside the twins. "Why do we have to spread these all over town?" Dipper asked. "Don't the people of Gravity Falls already know about the Mystery Shack?"

"Well, sure, they know. It's a major business. But we've got a bunch of new displays now, right? We need to remind the fair citizens of Gravity Falls that they need to come back for more."

"Oh, fun!" Mabel said, delightedly snatching up a handful of the advertisements. "I love all that door-to-door stuff? Remember last year, Dipper, when I went door-to-door for the Girl Scout cookies?"

Stan raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were a Girl Scout."

"She's not," Dipper said. "She wasn't selling cookies; she was just asking people to donate their cookies to her."

"I like Girl Scout cookies," Mabel added with a nod.

"Whatever," Stan grunted. "Just don't go demanding food out of any potential customers while the two of you are out. Now get. Oh, look both ways before crossing the street, don't get separated, and stick to the sidewalks. And if Old Man McGucket offers you candy, for God's sake, _just say no_."

On that note, Dipper grabbed the box and he and Mabel walked out the front door and along the path toward town. Once they came to the first row of houses, they stopped. "Okay," Dipper said. "Now, this will be much more efficient if one of us holds the box and the other goes to the door with the ads." He started to stretch the box toward his sister. "So, I'll just let you take the-"

"Advertisements?" Mabel interrupted quickly, grabbing several doorhangers from the top of the stack. "So you can keep working on your upper arm strength? Thanks, Dipper!"

She hurried up to nearest house to hang the little sign on the doorknob. Dipper said. "I swear," he muttered. "It'll be a miracle if I can even use these arms tomorrow."

The twins made their way through the neighborhoods of Gravity Falls. Mabel seemed to be having the time of her life rushing back and forth between the houses and the box of doorhangers. Dipper was just grateful that the town was small. If they had to go to every house somewhere like their hometown of Piedmont, it'd be days before the job was done.

The sun was beginning to set and the box of advertisements was nearly empty by the time Dipper and Mabel had gone full circle around the town. "Phew!" Mabel said in relief as they walked down the town's main road toward the path that led to the Shack. "That was a fun afternoon, wasn't it?"

"My arms are dead, Mabel," came Dipper's curt reply.

Mabel laughed. "Oh, come on, Dipping Sauce, it builds character. Wait, hang on a sec!" She threw out an arm to stop her brother in his tracks.

"What?" Dipper asked.

Mabel pointed through some thin trees. "Look! There's a house back there!"

Dipper squinted in the direction Mabel was pointing. Sure enough, he could see what appeared to be a tall, gray, Victorian-style house, with ivy climbing up the sides all the way to the roof. He shrugged. "So there's a house. What about it?"

"Well, we're supposed to give these doorhangers to all the houses, right?"

Dipper rolled his eyes. "Mabel, I bet no one even lives there. There's no car, no lights on. Besides, I'm exhausted. What's one less customer?"

"Dipper," Mabel said, "Grunkle Stan said 'one for every house,' and by golly, that's a house."

"Fine, whatever. You can take a brochure, but I'm heading back to the Shack."

Mabel grabbed his arm. "Nuh-uh. Stan told us not to get separated. Come on, just one last stop, then we'll go home."

Dipper sighed, but at his sister's persistent tug on his arm, he allowed Mabel to drag him along through the trees towards their final house for the night.

* * *

A/N: And with that, another story begins! Don't worry, the plot will kick off soon, and even sooner if I get reviews. Hint, hint, wink, wink.

Also, if you haven't done so yet, be sure to check out my other Gravity Falls fic, "Into the Woods."


	2. Chapter 2

Dipper watched his twin sister as she skipped eagerly along the pathway that began at the gate entrance, which stood unlocked at the center of a wrought-iron fence hidden by overgrown bushes, and ended at the two little stone steps that reached the tall pair of darkly-varnished double doors. The house stretched up two tall floors, with some smaller windows from what Dipper could only assume were attic space jutting out from a roof that was missing several of the brown shingles that overlapped like fish scales.

This little excursion was a waste of time, he knew. Chances were that no one even lived here. There were no lights on anywhere in the house, in spite of the darkening sky, no car could be seen anywhere near the house, and the entire property looked as though it had stood for years without the slightest hint of maintenance. Dipper was somewhat surprised not to see a weather-beaten "For Sale" sign sticking out of the ground anywhere.

Mabel smiled and turned to give her brother a thumbs-up as she placed the doorhanger advertisement on the knob. However, to both of their surprise, the paper had barely touched the iron-rusted doorknob when the heavy door swung open to the inside with a loud squeak.

"Oh!" Mabel gasped, leaping back. "Oh, hi!" She smiled uncertainly at the figure who stood in the doorway, meeting her gaze. It was an old man, older than her Grunkle Stan, but a bit taller and thinner and, in a curious contrast to the state of his place of residence, seemed to be hygienically much more well-kempt.

The man's expression was unreadable. "My apologies," he said. His voice was deep, but somehow had manage to avoid most of the gruffness that inevitably rode along aging. "I saw a visitor coming. I could've sworn you had already knocked."

"I-uh," Mabel said. "I wasn't actually going to knock, Mr.-?"

"I apologize again," the man said, smiling slightly. He held out his hand. "Perhaps an introduction? I'm Patrick Mason. Mr. Mason will do. I'm a decade too old for anyone to call me 'Patrick'."

Mabel took his hand tentatively, noticing as she did that it was callused and dry. "I'm Mabel," she said.

"And Dipper," came a voice at her side, as her brother took the man's hand and shook it, looking up at him with a sort of half-glare that was both accusatory and searching. Mabel was somewhat surprised; she hadn't even noticed her brother come up the path to join her. No doubt he had begun moving the moment the door had opened. "Sorry to disturb you, sir-" and Mabel didn't fail to notice the hint of acidity in the 'sir', "-we'll just go now."

"Not at all," Mr. Mason replied. "I've startled you haven't I? I've apologized twice, but I'm sure a third time can only help. If you'll excuse my eagerness and my haste. I very seldom receive visitors."

"Well, we're not exactly visitors," Dipper said. "Look, we just wanted to put this on your door." He pulled the advertisement out of his sister's hand and presented it to Mr. Mason. "That's all."

Mr. Mason smiled. "The Mystery Shack? To this day I'm amazed that place didn't go belly up within two days of opening. If you don't mind, I must ask: how, precisely, did Stanford rope you two into doing his grunt work for him?"

"He's our great uncle," Mabel said.

Immediately, Dipper elbowed her sharply in the side. He still wasn't quite ready to start handing out personal information to this previously-unknown neighbor. "You know our uncle?"

The old man shrugged. "We've been acquainted in the past. I have very seldom left this house since retiring, so I somehow doubt that my name has ever come up over dinner conversations. Ah, well, Stan's more a socialite than I am, despite the fact that his social skills may be rather- erm- polarizing."

Mabel raised an eyebrow. "Polarizing?" she repeated.

"Well, everyone knows Stanford Pines, but it's a matter of taste whether that be in the role of local legend or village idiot." He frowned. "And a fourth time, I must apologize. Living alone, one is wont to forget some of the social cues picked up over the years, such as not insulting a person's family members upon first meeting them."

"Oh, that's okay," Mabel said, smiling her signature bright, braces-filled grin. "Dipper and I call him an idiot all the time!"

Mr. Mason nodded. "Thank you. And I hope your brother's perception of me has not been soured any more than it was to begin with?"

"What?" Dipper said.

"No, no, it's quite all right. It's just that when I first opened this door, judging by your expression, you were just about prepared to see me leaping from this doorway and attacking you two. I suppose, as it's getting late and you're not exactly in the center of town, a bit of caution is more wise than not." He smirked. "Although, I must say, the only other creature I've seen startle so easily is my sister's old pet chihuahua."

Mabel giggled loudly at that comment, while Dipper scowled and felt his face burn slightly. "Oh, come on, Dipping Sauce!" Mabel said, punching her brother playfully in the arm. "Sorry, Mr. Mason, Dipper's kinda paranoid. He tends to think every new person he meets is gonna end up being a crazed axe-murderer."

Mr. Mason smiled at the blushing Dipper. "I assure you, young man," he said, "that if I were a crazed axe-murderer, I would be sure to inform you right away."

"Yes, well." Dipper cleared his throat. "I guess we're done here. So, yeah, Mystery Shack, fun in no refunds. Just, you know, keep the ad."

"Aw, Dipper, that's no way to sell it!" Mabel said. "Grunkle Stan's right, you have zero sense of sales pitch." She turned to Mr. Mason. "You don't know what you're missing out on if you haven't yet gone to the mysterious Mystery Shack! Already, we've been hosts to parties and fairs, and home to awe-inspiring exhibits like the incredible wax sculpture museum and the rare and ferocious Gremloblin, live and in the flesh!"

"Wax sculptures?" Mr. Mason said. "Acquisitions, I'd assume? Stanford Pines never struck me as much of a sculptor."

"Well, most of them were... acquired from elsewhere," Mabel said. "Although the true masterpiece of the show was made by yours truly!"

Mr. Mason stared at her for a moment, and then his face lit up. "Now, isn't this a pleasure! It's so rare nowadays that I make the acquaintance of a fellow sculptor!"

"'Fellow'? You sculpt?"

"I used to. Unfortunately, aging comes with a few dreadful footnotes, arthritis being among them. However, I do still have the majority of my works here in my house. Would you like to take a look?"

"Would I!" Mabel cried, delighted. But Dipper quickly caught her shoulder. "Mabel, are you crazy?" he whispered. "We just met this, guy, and you're seriously going to go into his house?"

Mr. Mason smiled softly. "Tell you what, Digger."

"Dipper," Dipper corrected him.

"Dipper. I assure you, I have no intentions of doing anything but sharing a love of art. However, if it worries you, you needn't tag along. I'll even leave this door wide open, see, so you'll be able to hear loud and clear if anything murderous is going on."

Mabel laughed. "Don't worry, Dip," she said. "It's fine." She walked into the house, guided by Mr. Mason's arm. The old man looked back, and Dipper could swear his smile faltered for a moment when he nodded and turned to join her, leaving the door gaping open where Dipper still stood resolutely on the stone step.

* * *

A/N: And thus, PaperKayak creates her very first original character in a fanfic. If you like what you're reading, be sure to leave a review!


	3. Chapter 3

Mabel woke with the sun the next morning. Or, more precisely, she woke the moment a single inch of sunbeam made it through the triangular window and into the attic bedroom that she shared with Dipper. Immediately after she woke up, she shoved her comforter aside and started to quietly get dressed. She nearly forgot about Waddles, who woke up with the movement of the bed and snorted curiously at her.

"Ssh!" Mabel said to the pig, putting a finger to her lips. "Quiet, Waddles! I don't want to wake Dipper up!" She softly pulled open a drawer of her dresser and pulled out a lavender sweater that bore a picture of a white daisy. "I could hardly sleep last night," she continued to whisper to her pet. "I kept thinking about that workshop of Mr. Mason's. It's amazing, Waddles! I just can't wait anymore! I've gotta go back there!"

Waddles snorted again, and Mabel shushed him. "You can't wake Dipper up, Waddles! Look, Dipper doesn't like Mr. Mason much. I don't think he'd be too keen on me going out to visit him again. But Waddles, you should have scene the place! It's like some sort of art museum!"

She pulled on her socks and slipped into a pair of shoes. "I'll just be out for the morning," she whispered. "And hey, look, I'll leave a note, see?" She took up a pad of pink stationery and a sparkly purple gel pen. "See, Waddles? No big deal." The gel pen scratched audibly on the stationery pad for a moment as Mabel scrawled out a quick message to Dipper. She laid the note onto her pillow.

"See?" she said softly. "No worries." Waddles snorted one more time, then rolled over and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.

"Aw, what do you know?" Mabel said. "You're a pig." She strolled across the attic and through the door, cringing as the hinges creaked while she pulled the door slowly to a close. Once out of the attic, she tiptoed down the steps, staying close to the wall so that the stairs wouldn't squeak too.

_You're being stupid, Mabel,_ she chided herself. _There's no reason to be all secretive. You're just going off to enjoy a fun hobby with a nice neighbor. So what if Dipper doesn't approve? He's not the boss of you. Besides, the only thing wrong with Mr. Mason is Dipper's dumb paranoia. It's not like he's never been wrong before. No need to leave so silently, so early. You should go back upstairs, shake him awake, and say, 'Hey, Dipper! I'm going to Mr. Mason's house whether you like it or not! I'm not going to let your stupid scaredy-cat vibes get in the way of my having fun any more!' Yeah! I'll just go up and say that! Right to his face!_

Still in silence, Mabel crept through the door and across the front yard until she reached the little road that was her route to Mr. Mason's house. She glanced over her shoulder to the house, and to the attic window. _Eh, I'll tell him off tomorrow,_ she thought, and with that, she set off down the road.

* * *

Stan Pines looked up over the morning's edition of the Gravity Falls Gossiper as he heard his great-nephew clambering down the stairs. Dipper gave him a nod before pulling a box of Cheerios out of the pantry and then searching the overhead cabinets for a clean bowl. Stan noticed that his hair was matted down oddly to one side. Apparently his nephew had once again forgotten to take his hat off before falling asleep.

"Mornin', Dip," Stan said.

Dipper only grunted in return. He pulled open the refrigerator door and gave the contents a quick glance. "Grunkle Stan, we're out of milk," he said.

"No we're not. I just got more yesterday. Check behind the orange juice."

Stan watched as his nephew rummaged through the bottles and jugs. "Oh, right," the boy muttered. "I didn't notice it there." He grabbed the carton and set his breakfast supplies on the table. With a grunt, he pulled himself onto the chair. He lifted the box of Cheerios and started to pour them into the bowl, but he must have aimed poorly, because little pieces of cereal scattered onto the table and floor.

"Geez, kid, watch it!" Stan snapped, pushing his chair back and getting down onto the floor to scoop up the spilled cereal.

"Sorry!" Dipper said. "Sorry, wasn't paying much attention. Want me to go get a broom?"

"Nah, I've already got half of 'em. We'll just let the pig vacuum up what we miss."

Dipper knelt down and began helping his uncle collect the Cheerios. Now that they were at eye level, Stan noticed that the ever-present bags under Dipper's eyes seemed dark than usual. "Something eating at you, kid?" he asked.

His nephew looked up. "No. Why?"

"Well, you lost the milk, spilled cereal everywhere, and you look like your body still thinks it's in bed. You seem like you're running on fumes."

"Oh." Dipper ran a hand through his hat-pressed curls. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little distracted. Mabel left me a note this morning, and I- I dunno. I'm not too crazy about it."

By now, the two of them straightened up and dumped the cereal they had gathered into the garbage can. "Not too crazy about what?" Stan asked.

"Mr. Mason. One of the neighbors we met yesterday while we were handing out those doorhangers. Mabel's over at his house right now. Apparently he's letting her use his workshop to work on her art projects."

"Mason, Mason," Stan muttered, racking his mind for the name.

"Patrick Mason," Dipper said. He sat down at the table and carefully began a second attempt at pouring his cereal. "He lives in this big old house that's in the woods closer to town. You know him?"

Stan pulled out his own chair and sat down opposite his nephew. "I might. Describe him?"

Dipper frowned. "Um, well, he's kinda medium-height, I guess. Gray hair, balding a bit. Normal weight, maybe a little less. No mustache or glasses, but I think he was kinda stubbly. And maybe sixty-something, seventy-something?"

His uncle snorted. "Kid, you just described half the people I know," he said.

"Well, it's not my fault that he just looks like a generic old person! That's all I remember, except that he says he's always sculpting and doesn't get many visitors."

Stan's face brightened. "Now, see, _that's_ the kind of information I can use," he said. "I remember that name now. That guy used to work over at the museum, restoring art and stuff, or something like that. I had to run him out of the Mystery Shack a couple of times back when I first started. Kept telling the tourists which exhibits were fake."

"I thought they all were fake."

"Some of them have basis in fact," Stan snapped. "Anyway, long story short, the guy's really into preserving art, then a few years back, he retires, and suddenly he's a hermit."

"But isn't there anything else?" Dipper urged. "Were there exhibits mysteriously vanishing from the museum or something? Wasn't there anything weird at all?"

Stan raised an eyebrow in confusion. "What, do you want him to be a criminal or something? Hoping he'll be the next one of your little 'mysteries'?" He held up his fingers and made air quotes on that last word.

Dipper scowled. "No, it's not- look the guy really rubs me the wrong way, okay? And if there's any solid reason that Mabel shouldn't be going to his place-"

"Sorry to disappoint you, kid. Nah, the man's a little arrogant, bit too bull-headed for my taste, but nothing worthy of banning your sister from him."

Dipper sighed. "Aw, relax, kid," Stan said. "You really gotta stop being so suspicious about every little thing. And in the meantime, I'll go get you something to wipe up that milk you're pouring onto your leg."

He smirked as he got up to get a paper towel. Dipper quickly turned the milk carton upright, his cheeks turning pink. He really needed to get more sleep.

* * *

A/N: Leave a review! Or don't. Whatever. I don't care. I am strong and independent. I don't need you. Your opinions don't define me.

(I'm in denial. They totally do. Review, please! And if you need something more to click, favorite and/or follow!)


	4. Chapter 4

Mabel woke with the sun the next morning. Or, more precisely, she woke the moment a single inch of sunbeam made it through the triangular window and into the attic bedroom that she shared with Dipper. Immediately after she woke up, she shoved her comforter aside and started to quietly get dressed. She nearly forgot about Waddles, who woke up with the movement of the bed and snorted curiously at her.

"Ssh!" Mabel said to the pig, putting a finger to her lips. "Quiet, Waddles! I don't want to wake Dipper up!" She softly pulled open a drawer of her dresser and pulled out a lavender sweater that bore a picture of a white daisy. "I could hardly sleep last night," she continued to whisper to her pet. "I kept thinking about that workshop of Mr. Mason's. It's amazing, Waddles! I just can't wait anymore! I've gotta go back there!"

Waddles snorted again, and Mabel shushed him. "You can't wake Dipper up, Waddles! Look, Dipper doesn't like Mr. Mason much. I don't think he'd be too keen on me going out to visit him again. But Waddles, you should have scene the place! It's like some sort of art museum!"

She pulled on her socks and slipped into a pair of shoes. "I'll just be out for the morning," she whispered. "And hey, look, I'll leave a note, see?" She took up a pad of pink stationery and a sparkly purple gel pen. "See, Waddles? No big deal." The gel pen scratched audibly on the stationery pad for a moment as Mabel scrawled out a quick message to Dipper. She laid the note onto her pillow.

"See?" she said softly. "No worries." Waddles snorted one more time, then rolled over and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.

"Aw, what do you know?" Mabel said. "You're a pig." She strolled across the attic and through the door, cringing as the hinges creaked while she pulled the door slowly to a close. Once out of the attic, she tiptoed down the steps, staying close to the wall so that the stairs wouldn't squeak too.

_You're being stupid, Mabel,_ she chided herself. _There's no reason to be all secretive. You're just going off to enjoy a fun hobby with a nice neighbor. So what if Dipper doesn't approve? He's not the boss of you. Besides, the only thing wrong with Mr. Mason is Dipper's dumb paranoia. It's not like he's never been wrong before. No need to leave so silently, so early. You should go back upstairs, shake him awake, and say, 'Hey, Dipper! I'm going to Mr. Mason's house whether you like it or not! I'm not going to let your stupid scaredy-cat vibes get in the way of my having fun any more!' Yeah! I'll just go up and say that! Right to his face! _

Still in silence, Mabel crept through the door and across the front yard until she reached the little road that was her route to Mr. Mason's house. She glanced over her shoulder to the house, and to the attic window. _Eh, I'll tell him off tomorrow,_ she thought, and with that, she set off down the road.

* * *

Stan Pines looked up over the morning's edition of the Gravity Falls Gossiper as he heard his great-nephew clambering down the stairs. Dipper gave him a nod before pulling a box of Cheerios out of the pantry and then searching the overhead cabinets for a clean bowl. Stan noticed that his hair was matted down oddly to one side. Apparently his nephew had once again forgotten to take his hat off before falling asleep.

"Mornin', Dip," Stan said.

Dipper only grunted in return. He pulled open the refrigerator door and gave the contents a quick glance. "Grunkle Stan, we're out of milk," he said.

"No we're not. I just got more yesterday. Check behind the orange juice."

Stan watched as his nephew rummaged through the bottles and jugs. "Oh, right," the boy muttered. "I didn't notice it there." He grabbed the carton and set his breakfast supplies on the table. With a grunt, he pulled himself onto the chair. He lifted the box of Cheerios and started to pour them into the bowl, but he must have aimed poorly, because little pieces of cereal scattered onto the table and floor.

"Geez, kid, watch it!" Stan snapped, pushing his chair back and getting down onto the floor to scoop up the spilled cereal.

"Sorry!" Dipper said. "Sorry, wasn't paying much attention. Want me to go get a broom?"

"Nah, I've already got half of 'em. We'll just let the pig vacuum up what we miss."

Dipper knelt down and began helping his uncle collect the Cheerios. Now that they were at eye level, Stan noticed that the ever-present bags under Dipper's eyes seemed dark than usual. "Something eating at you, kid?" he asked.

His nephew looked up. "No. Why?"

"Well, you lost the milk, spilled cereal everywhere, and you look like your body still thinks it's in bed. You seem like you're running on fumes."

"Oh." Dipper ran a hand through his hat-pressed curls. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little distracted. Mabel left me a note this morning, and I- I dunno. I'm not too crazy about it."

By now, the two of them straightened up and dumped the cereal they had gathered into the garbage can. "Not too crazy about what?" Stan asked.

"Mr. Mason. One of the neighbors we met yesterday while we were handing out those doorhangers. Mabel's over at his house right now. Apparently he's letting her use his workshop to work on her art projects."

"Mason, Mason," Stan muttered, racking his mind for the name.

"Patrick Mason," Dipper said. He sat down at the table and carefully began a second attempt at pouring his cereal. "He lives in this big old house that's in the woods closer to town. You know him?"

Stan pulled out his own chair and sat down opposite his nephew. "I might. Describe him?"

Dipper frowned. "Um, well, he's kinda medium-height, I guess. Gray hair, balding a bit. Normal weight, maybe a little less. No mustache or glasses, but I think he was kinda stubbly. And maybe fifty-something, sixty-something?"

His uncle snorted. "Kid, you just described half the people I know," he said.

"Well, it's not my fault that he just looks like a generic old person! That's all I remember, except that he says he's always sculpting and doesn't get many visitors."

Stan's face brightened. "Now, see, _that's_ the kind of information I can use," he said. "I remember that name now. That guy used to work over at the museum, restoring art and stuff, or something like that. I had to run him out of the Mystery Shack a couple of times back when I first started. Kept telling the tourists which exhibits were fake."

"I thought they all were fake."

"Some of them have basis in fact," Stan snapped. "Anyway, long story short, the guy's really into preserving art, then a few years back, he retires, and suddenly he's a hermit."

"But isn't there anything else?" Dipper urged. "Were there exhibits mysteriously vanishing from the museum or something? Wasn't there anything weird at all?"

Stan raised an eyebrow in confusion. "What, do you want him to be a criminal or something? Hoping he'll be the next one of your little 'mysteries'?" He held up his fingers and made air quotes on that last word.

Dipper scowled. "No, it's not- look the guy really rubs me the wrong way, okay? And if there's any solid reason that Mabel shouldn't be going to his place-"

"Sorry to disappoint you, kid. Nah, the man's a little arrogant, bit too bull-headed for my taste, but nothing worthy of banning your sister from him."

Dipper sighed. "Aw, relax, kid," Stan said. "You really gotta stop being so suspicious about every little thing. And in the meantime, I'll go get you something to wipe up that milk you're pouring onto your leg."

He smirked as he got up to get a paper towel. Dipper quickly turned the milk carton upright, his cheeks turning pink. He really needed to get more sleep.

* * *

A/N: Leave a review! Or don't. Whatever. I don't care. I am strong and independent. I don't need you. Your opinions don't define me.

(I'm in denial. They totally do. Review, please! And if you need something more to click, favorite and/or follow!)


	5. Chapter 5

This time, Mabel managed to get three knocks in on the heavy front door before it swung open to reveal Mr. Mason. "Mabel," he said warmly. "I know I extended an invitation, but I didn't count on you taking me up on my offer so soon. Nor at such an early hour."

"Sorry," Mabel said. "I didn't wake you, did I? I just woke up right away this morning and I couldn't get back to sleep and I kept thinking about your workshop and all your sculptures and I just couldn't help-"

Mr. Mason cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No, it's no matter, no matter at all. And you needn't worry about waking me. I've always been an early riser." He smiled. "And if you'd like an explanation for my ghastly tardiness in answering the door, I should also let you know that I've been clearing up the workroom in anticipation of your arrival and its subsequent use?"

"You have?" Mabel stepped over the entry threshold and she and Mr. Mason began making their way back to the workshop. "It looked pretty clean yesterday."

"Yes, but 'pretty clean' is not an ideal working environment. I've tossed all empty tubes and buckets in lieu of full replacements, and I've stored away some of my older works, so your own can be displayed."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that!" Mabel cried. "I'm doing this more for fun than anything. And, oh, why would you want to get rid of your own work?"

Mr. Mason noticeably stiffened. "I find that some of the sculptures and paintings no longer contain the life that they once possessed. Not that those particular works had much to begin with. And, forgive me for once again being rather forward, but I would be honored and delighted if you'd allow me to display what you create in this house. What with my arthritis preventing me from creating my own new works, I grow tired of the same décor in the house day after day."

Mabel nodded. "I understand." They had reached the workshop by this point, and Mabel gleefully pulled a stool over to where a bucket of pottery clay sat beside a sturdy table bearing a dish of water and a cup of paintbrushes. "I'm in the mood for sculpting today!" she said brightly. She reached into the tub, pulled out a chunk of clay, wet her hands in the water dish, and started moulding. "So, do you want to stick around, or do you want my sculpture to be a surprise?"

"Whichever you prefer," Mr. Mason replied.

Mabel grinned. "I think I'm gonna surprise you!"

"Very well. I'll be in the parlor if for any reason you need me. Help yourself to anything in the workshop. The kitchen is opposite the parlor if you get hungry, and the bathroom adjacent."

"I don't know what 'adjacent' means, but I'm sure I'll find it," Mabel said with a nod. "Now, go on! You want to be surprised, right?"

Mr. Mason tipped his head in the affirmative and backed out of the room. As he slowly closed the door behind him, he could hear the girl starting to pound her clay into shape. He smiled to himself as he listened, then walked through the kitchen to a door at the end of the house, which led to the cellar. His smile faded as he descended the narrow steps. He looked around. The cellar was getting far too crowded. Paintings were stacked in columns, still in their frames, and even from the steps he could see where they were faded or worn or even burned. The sculptures packed in haphazardly, or, in some cases, the remains thereof, were in no better shape.

He sighed as he picked up the ceramic bust of what was once an entire sculpture, one depicting a stout Catholic monk holding a finger to his lips. Most of the statue must have been buried by its fellow works, but the shoulders and head had made their way nearly to the staircase. Mr. Mason delicately traced his finger along a crack in the monk's ceramic visage that ran from his left ear to the right side of his chin.

"You poor things," he muttered. "So many works drained of life, stuffed in here like so many corpses." He shook his head. "And so many artists gone to waste. No matter. I'm sure my current hand has enough life in her to replace that lot of you, and then some." He tutted softly. "A pity."

He bounced the monk's head gently in his hand, then turned his wrist and let it slide to the floor. It shattered there, and the fragments clattered across the floor. "Look at that, Brother," Mr. Mason whispered. "More room for the rest of us."

* * *

"I'm finished!"

Mabel's squeal reached Mr. Mason seconds before the voice's owner slid into the parlor, a wide smile plastered onto her face. "I finished the sculpture!" she said enthusiastically. "You ready to come see it?"

"As I'll ever be," the old man replied as he slowly rose from his the armchair in which he had been seated and followed Mabel into the workshop.

She stood proudly beside the table, her arms extended to display the sculpture that stood upon it. Mabel had shaped the clay into a large bird's nest. The texture of the nest stood out in detail, every clay twig deeply outlined, and pressed inside it were three smooth, ellipsoidal eggs.

As the seconds ticked by, Mabel's face fell. "You don't like it," she said, lowering her arms.

Mr. Mason hastily shook his head. "No, no, of course I like it. It's just- it's just not what I had expected."

"Huh?" Mabel said with a frown. "What do you mean? What was it that you expected?"

"Well, it's simply that I had thought you sculpted people." He shook his head. "Of course, your bird's nest is lovely, and done quite well. I simply have rather a fondness for depictions of people in art. I feel they possess a certain quality of life that cannot be found in any other subject."

"Oh," Mabel said. "Well, maybe I could come by some time soon and sculpt a person for you? If that's what you want?"

Mr. Mason smiled. "Mabel, I would want that very much." He cleared his throat. "It's nearly one o' clock. Have you gotten yourself anything to eat yet?" Mabel shook her head. "Well, that must be corrected. I'm not sure what you enjoy, but I have bread and turkey taking up room in my refrigerator."

"I'd like that," Mabel said cheerfully as the two of them walked into the kitchen. Even in this room, sculptures and paintings were on proud display. Mabel's eyes were drawn to a statue that stood in front of the kitchen's window which lent a few to the woods behind the house. It was one of a a girl in Victorian-era dress, holding a bouquet of flowers that wilted and drooped over her clenched hands. Her stone hair fell in rivulets and curls to her shoulder, and every strand seemed to have been crafted individually.

"This is beautiful," Mabel cooed. She crossed the room and gently ran her hand along the locks of hair on the sculpture.

Suddenly, her hand was caught in a tight grip. Mabel whipped her head around to see Mr. Mason, his eyes wide and his face pale, clutching her tiny hand in his. "_Don't... touch... her_," he growled through clenched teeth.

"Wha-" Mabel started.

Mr. Mason's grip tightened. "I mean it, Mabel. The works in this house are _not_ to be_ touched_."

"M-Mr. Mason?" Mabel stammered. "You're hurting my hand."

Mr. Mason looked down at his hand as though seeing it for the first time, then quickly released Mabel. "I'm- I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I've frightened you haven't I? I apologize, Mabel, truly I do." He sighed. "You must forgive me. I'm afraid living alone with nothing but my art, I grow rather attached to them. You understand, don't you? You understand that I'd want to be cautious?"

Mabel nodded tentatively. "Yeah, I guess," she said. "Sorry I touched your sculpture, Mr. Mason."

"No apology needed," Mr. Mason replied. "Be a dear, take a seat at the table, and I will finish your sandwich, all right?"

Mabel slipped into a chair and listened as Mr. Mason stood at the counter and prepared her turkey sandwich. When he joined her at the table and handed it to her, she began to eat it in silence. He sighed. "I really am sorry, Mabel."

"I know," Mabel said through a mouthful of sandwich. "It's okay."

"Then you accept my apology?"

"Yeah, I accept it."

Mr. Mason smiled softly. "And I hope I can rest assured that you'll visit again after today?"

Mabel swallowed her bite of food and returned Mr. Mason's smile. "Yeah. Of course I will."

* * *

A/N: I really should have spent this evening studying for my French test tomorrow, but the subjunctive tense is really boring, and makes about as much sense as the final season of _LOST_.

Ah, well. Here's hoping you'll leave a review for my troubles. And if you haven't yet, follow and/or favorite! Followers and favorite-ers make me feel all happy inside.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm home!" Mabel called out to no one in particular as she stepped into the foyer of the residence portion of the Mystery Shack, letting the door swing closed behind her. Dipper, lounged casually across the den's faded armchair, looked up over the pages of the tattered crimson journal that he'd been reading. "Mabel!" he said, closing the book over his index finger to mark his place. "You're back!"

"I just said that," Mabel replied. "You need to get your hearing checked." She took a closer look at her brother. "Jeez, Dipper, you look like you just ran a mile. I mean, I get that you're happy to see me- and what's that on your shorts? Is that dried milk?"

Dipper frowned. "Spilled a bit at breakfast. Doesn't matter. Look, what were you doing all morning?"

"I left you a note. I said that I was going to Mr. Mason's house to use his workroom."

"All morning?" Dipper said. "You were there for hours, Mabel!"

"What, you expected me to just whip a sculpture out of thin air?" Mabel shook her head. "Why? You were worried? Is that why you're looking all flustered like that?"

Her brother scowled. "Not exactly without reason. Mabel, we just met that man yesterday, and already you're spending hours at a time in his home? Even back at home, that doesn't sound like the safest idea. But here in Gravity Falls?" He held up the journal so that the golden six-fingered hand emblazoned with the black number three faced Mabel. "Have your forgotten? 'In Gravity Falls, there is no one you can trust'?"

"Oh, relax, Dipper," Mabel sighed. "You're just using that as an excuse to be all paranoid all the time. It's kinda getting old now."

"It's not _paranoia,_" Dipper said. "It's caution. And it's pretty justified. Think about everything we've seen in the few weeks we've been here."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dipper, there's paranormal stuff that happens here. Good job. And it's not like you're some sort of super-expert on Gravity Falls. You've been wrong about plenty of things before; what makes you think your stupid gut instinct is so right about Mr. Mason?"

Dipper felt his face beginning to redden. "What do you mean I've been wrong about plenty of things? I have not!"

"Oh, please!" Mabel snorted. She crossed her eyes, pulled her mouth into the most ridiculous grin she could manage, and affected a deep voice. "Hey, I'm Dipper, and I bet I can use a bunch of clones of myself to impress a girl! Ooh, I'm going to steal this time machine and use it to fix a stupid mistake, because I totally know what I'm doing! Gosh, Mabel, just dump Gideon, real quick, like ripping off a band-aid; no way that could end badly! Hey, I'm gonna go chop off the head of a giant magical bear-thing so a bunch of violent half-bulls will like me! Grunkle Stan, let's bring a giant creature who makes people see their worst nightmares into the store and show it off to tourists! Mabel, your new boyfriend's totally a _zombie_. He's gonna _eat your brain_, Mabel!"

"I was half-right about that last one!" Dipper snapped.

"Oh, whatever," Mabel said. "Look, point is, there is nothing wrong with Mr. Mason. Why can't you just accept that maybe, just maybe, he's an ordinary old man who just happens to be into art? Huh? Is that so unbelievable?"

Dipper sighed. "Mabel, listen. There is something about that man that just really, really rubs me the wrong way.

"Dipper, _everything_ rubs you the wrong way!" Mabel replied in exasperation. "Remember when we were little, and you always refused to sit on Santa's lap at the mall because you thought he would sic his elf army on you?"

"Mabel-"

"Or after you first watched _Toy Story_ and were afraid to go into your bedroom for days because you thought the toys would come to life and turn on you?"

"Mabel-"

"Oh, and let's not forget that you used to refuse to play on the swingset with me because the swings had no seatbelts."

"_Mabel!_" Dipper shouted. "Enough! You've made your- actually, no, you haven't. What's your point?"

Mabel sighed. "I'm just saying that maybe you can crawl out from hiding under the bedcovers once in a while and just trust someone for once in your life. The world's not out to get us, Dipping Sauce."

She started up the stairs, and her footsteps resounded loudly in the otherwise silent foyer. After a few seconds, Dipper leaned on the rail and called up to her. "So I take it this means you're planning on visiting Mr. Mason?"

His sister turned around and matched his expression with a glare that seemed horribly out of place on her usually bright and cheerful. "Yes, it does."

She strode out of Dipper's line of vision, and he heard the attic door slam shut above him. He turned to move back to the armchair and opened the journal back to where he had left off. "I still don't trust him," he muttered to himself.

* * *

Mr. Mason stood over the bird's nest sculpture, waiting for it to finish cooling. To his relief, Mabel had remembered to leave a hollow space in the clay before it could be fired in the kiln. Clearly, she had experience.

Whether or not she would put that experience to good use... well, he had yet to see.

He ran a finger along the smooth surface of the eggs, then the bumpy texture that made up the next. It really was an excellent bit of work. It may not have been the subject to which he was so much more accustomed, but he might still be able to get some use out of it.

Mr. Mason took a deep breath, and in an instant, his entire body went rigid, and still and stiff as the many statues that filled his home. The ceramic nest began to tremble on the table, clattering loudly. As the nest began to rock, a crack made its way across the surface of one of the eggs, as though a tiny clay bird inside were ready to hatch.

The old man gasped and quickly put a hand to his chest. Through his thick skin, he could feel his heart pulsing a few beats. His hand shook, and the heartbeat faltered. He pressed his chest harder, hoping to feel that pulse again, but the fleeting beat had faded.

He sighed and picked up the bird's nest. He'd display it, somewhere. Mabel would be offended if he didn't. But it was far from enough.

No matter. She'd be back. And Mr. Mason didn't intend to waste any more time.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I realize it's been about an eon since I last updated. But in the past two weeks, I have had prom, and band concert, two AP exams, a piano recital, a scholarship banquet, tests in four different subjects, an English thesis due, a campus visit, doctor's appointments, and I've developed an unhealthy addiction to blackjack.

But anyway, I'm back! Please leave a review!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Quick heads-up. Earlier this week, I put chapter six up, but the site was having some trouble sending notifications, so you may not have gotten an alert if you follow the story. If you missed it, go ahead and read it now before you start this chapter. Thanks!

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Mason!" Mabel said brightly as the old man opened the door. "I'm here to do some more art!"

Mr. Mason raised an eyebrow. "I must say, I'm a mite surprised," he said. "You were here for hours yesterday. I had assumed that you'd take some time to recharge."

"Oh, don't be silly!" Mabel said, taking that as an invitation to step into the house. "This is my chance to finally do some real work on my art. Anyway, I don't really need to recharge. I always have all the energy I need. My mom sometimes tells me that my blood is half-coffee."

"Physiologically, that's rather frightening," Mr. Mason replied. He followed Mabel, who strode through the den as though this were her millionth visit instead of just her third, into the workroom. "But I assume she was referring to the caffeine?"

"Uh-huh," Mabel nodded. "Hey, Mr. Mason, can I use one of those blank canvases you have there? I'm in a painting mood."

"Be my guest," he said, and he watched as Mabel hooked a canvas onto one of his easels and then began rummaging through the cluttered shelves in search of a tray of watercolors. "You have a subject in mind to paint, or is it going to be another surprise?"

"Nah, you can stick around this time," Mabel replied. She located the tray of colors and moved to start dipping a thin brush into the water. "I'm just gonna kinda make it up as I go today. I mean, it's going to be a person of some sort- as a little gift to you-" she added with a smile at Mr. Mason, "but I figure something'll come to me after I outline a bit. Speaking of, do you have any pencils?"

He pointed. "There's a case of them on that top shelf back there."

Mabel followed his finger and walked over to the shelf, which loomed several feet above her head. She grabbed the bottom of the shelf below it, and, with a small grunt, hoisted herself up.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Mason asked.

"Grabbing a pencil," Mabel answered. She leaned back so that her feet could get a good hold on the shelf she stood on, then stretched her arm out to grab the next shelf up.

"Well, don't do it that way!" Mr. Mason scolded. "Either grab a stool, or I'll just get it for you."

"Nah, it's fine," Mabel said. "Don't worry I climb stuff like this all the time."

"Mabel, if you hurt yourself in my workshop, it's on me. Now _stop climbing_."

Mabel paused and turned her head over to look at Mr. Mason, then slowly lowered herself off the shelf. "Okay, fine, I'll grab a stool."

"Thank you," Mr. Mason sighed. "There's one in the kitchen. I'll get it for you."

He left for the kitchen and returned moments later balancing a metal stepstool in front of him. He set it down in front of the shelf and Mabel climbed onto it. "You know," she said as she finally grasped the case of pencils, "I am capable of doing _some_ things by myself without any kind of disaster striking."

"I'm sorry?"

Mabel sighed. She set the case down by the easel, plucked out a pencil, and began outlining a person onto the canvas. "Never mind. It's just for a moment there you were beginning to sound like my brother."

"I take it you're referring to the brother I met two days ago," Mr. Mason said. "What was his name? Digger?"

"Dipper," Mabel said.

"Ah, yes, I recall now. Would that be derived from the kitchen utensil, the asterism, or the slang for 'pickpocket'?"

Mabel snorted. "The aster- aster-whaddayacallit. He's got a birthmark that looks like the Big Dipper. And believe me, Dipper won't be out picking pockets anytime soon. He'd probably be afraid that someone would catch him and try to stab him to death or something."

Mr. Mason frowned. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help but detect a bit of bitterness just now."

Mabel allowed him a smile before she turned back to her pencil sketch. "Aw, it's no big deal. We kinda had a bit of an argument yesterday. Guess I'm just still a little steamed is all."

"I don't mean to pry-"

"Nah, that's fine," Mabel interrupted him. "Look, the thing you gotta know about Dipper, is that he's paranoid. Like, _crazy_ paranoid. Well, no, not crazy exactly. He's still sane and all, but it's pretty annoying sometime. You know, he didn't want me to come down and work on my art at your house. I don't think you've convinced him yet that you're not a crazed murderer." She rolled her eyes. "Don't feel too special, though. I'm pretty sure that's Dipper's first impression of every person he meets."

"Guilty until proven innocent, hm?" Mr. Mason said with a smile. "Sounds like the type of kid who spends his college days chasing after conspiracies and unicorns."

Mabel laughed. "Dipper's an overachiever. He didn't wait 'til college. Even before we came here to Gravity Falls, he was into all that stuff about ghosts and UFOs and Sasquatch. And then, of course, since we got here, and with all the-" She paused abruptly and glanced at Mr. Mason. "I mean, not that there's anything here that there wasn't back home, it's just, I mean-"

"Relax, Mabel," Mr. Mason cut her off with a slight gesture of a wrinkled hand. "I'm perfectly aware that there are things that occur around here that science simply cannot explain. One does not live in Gravity Falls as long as I have without noticing anything odd."

Mabel smiled. "Dipper would be glad to hear it. He's all about the paranormal. He's tried to tell people about it, and he even once tried to put this magical creature thingy he found in the forest on display at the Mystery Shack, but I think by now half the town thinks he's bonkers."

"So your brother makes this quite a passionate hobby."

"Forget hobby, it's practically his whole life. Dipper's like the expert on supernatural stuff by now. It's all he thinks about."

Mr. Mason nodded thoughtfully. "And how, may I ask, did he come across such expertise? It's very seldom that I see anyone with proficient knowledge of the paranormal, let alone a twelve-year-old boy."

"Well, see, he found this-" Mabel stopped herself short. As far as she knew, she and Dipper were the only two people who knew about Book 3. Sure, Soos and Wendy had seen him with it, but no doubt they had just assumed it was one of those novels that he would read for hours on end every night. Even Grunkle Stan didn't even know of the journal's existence. Mabel had a feeling Dipper wouldn't be too keen on her spilling the secret to anyone, especially someone whom he seemed to distrust so much. "It's all experience," she corrected herself. "He goes out into the woods, finds some sort of magic creature or ancient spell, and studies it 'til he knows it like the back of his head."

"And you would consider him an expert on the magic in this town?"

Mabel nodded. "Oh, definitely." She cringed slightly. "So you don't think he's nuts, do you Mr. Mason?"

"On the contrary," Mr. Mason replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "I think I would rather like to get better acquainted with this brother of yours."

* * *

A/N: Be sure to review, follow, favorite, buy me gifts, and sing my praises at every opportunity!


	8. Chapter 8

Dipper awoke the next morning to an odd noise. A muffled scratching sound, punctuated occasionally by low grunts. Dipper's first thought, which woke him completely and sent him shivering under the bedcovers, was that some sort of creature was scraping at the walls and growling, trying to clamber into the room. Half of him wanted to go grab one of his miniature golf clubs and ready himself for a fight, while the other half was perfectly content being hidden by the blanket. However, he dared a peek out into the room, and immediately located the source of the sound: Waddles was at their door, scratching at the wood and oinking.

"Dang it, Waddles," he muttered. He climbed out of bed and opened up the attic door. Waddles shot off like a cork, running down the stairs and carrying on with his whining and scratching at the house's entrance. Dipper let him out to do his business. "Hey, Mabel!" he called into to Shack. "You forgot to let Waddles out this morning! Again!" Sighing, he took a moment to fill the pig's empty food dish from the sealed bag of scraps Mabel kept handy on the front porch.

He made his way back up the stairs, irritation clouding his still half-asleep head. Yesterday, Grunkle Stan had ended up letting Waddles out and feeding him, seeing as Mabel had run off to Mr. Mason's without doing either. Looks like today, it was Dipper's job. Well, when she got home from Mr. Mason's today, she had better be prepared to take one of Dipper's chores to compensate.

Dipper walked back into the attic, noticing that the room was always flooded with light; it must have been pretty late in the morning. He pulled a pair of socks out from his dresser, and his vest and cap from its place on his bedpost. As he slipped on his shoes and began tying them, he glanced across the room and suddenly noticed that he wasn't alone.

He frowned, bemused. Mabel's form was outlined by the bedcovers over her, moving up and down slightly with the heavy breathing of deep sleep. Normally, Mabel was always awake before her brother. This morning should have been no exception, especially considering that she had gone up to bed just after dark, while Dipper had stayed up into the dead hours of morning to watch a _Back to the Future_ marathon that had been aired by one of the few station's Stan's television actually got.

"Mabel?" he said, walking over to her. His sister's hand was wrapped tightly around her little stuffed tiger, and her lips were moving ever so slightly. "Mabel," Dipper repeated, shaking her gently. Mabel grumbled something and buried herself deeper in her covers. Dipper's shaking increased. "Mabel! Time to wake up!"

Mabel rolled over and glared at her brother. Her eyes still were groggy, and a deep, tired frown stretched across her lips, which took Dipper aback. Normally, Mabel was the epitome of a morning person, a fact that had annoyed Dipper to no end on many a school day. "Geez, Mabel," Dipper said. "The beauty sleep doesn't seem to be working."

"Give me a few more minutes," Mabel mumbled, closing her eyes and rolling away.

Dipper shook her again. "Mabel, it's-" he glanced at the clock, "-ten-thirty. It's time to get up." He sighed. "What's up? You never sleep in this late. You sick or something?"

He reached out a hand to her forehead, which Mabel quickly swatted away. "No, I'm not sick, Dipping Sauce. I'm just tired." She turned back over to face her brother. "Besides, if I _was_ sick, you definitely wouldn't be my first choice for a nurse."

"Thanks a lot," Dipper grunted, but he smiled. The joking side of Mabel had been hiding itself well over the past couple of days. "Hey, I'm going to head down to the Shack. We're over and hour late already, and Stan's probably about ready to have a cow." He turned to walk out of the attic. "You sure you're feeling all right?" he asked again, glancing back.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mabel replied. "Just give me a few more minutes to sleep, and I'll join you."

Dipper nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him, then bounded down the stairs. He probably didn't have time for a proper breakfast, so he made do by popping a chocolate Pop Tart into the toaster and, once it had been heated, munching on it on his way into the gift shop.

To his surprise, the irate uncle he had expected was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the whole shop was empty of people. That is, except for Wendy, who sat leaning on two legs of her chair, her mud-caked boots propped up on the register, her face nearly hidden behind a magazine whose cover announced in bold yellow font that the latest celebrity marriage scandal was "absolutely shocking!"

Dipper sidled into a stool beside the counter, and the red-headed cashier looked up. "Oh, hey, Dipper," she said. "How long have you been there?"

"I just showed up," Dipper replied.

"Oh, okay. Wait, what time is it?"

"About ten-thirty."

Wendy frowned. "Shoot. Stan told me to wake you two if you hadn't gotten up by nine. Guess it's too late now, though, right?" She smiled. "Ah, well, not like you missed much. We haven't had anyone in the gift shop, and there aren't even tours today since Stan's not around."

"Speaking of which, where is he?" Dipper asked.

The older girl shrugged. "He claimed that he had a meeting, but he was wearing bowling shoes when he left, so I wouldn't bet on it. And Soos has the day off, too. Apparently there was some video game convention or something in Portland that he just _had_ to attend."

"So it's just been you all day?"

"Yep." She grinned. "Not that I haven't been productive. Go get a fortune from that new machine."

"I don't have a quarter with me," Dipper said.

Wendy popped open the cash register and tossed Dipper a coin, which he dropped and had to scoop off the floor. "Stan won't miss it," she said. "Now go on, get your fortune."

Dipper went over to the machine, inserted the coin, and pressed the button. The orb on top whirred to life, and the slip of paper popped out of its slot. Dipper took it and read out loud: " 'You just wasted a quarter, sucker'."

Wendy smiled broadly. "I figured out how to change what fortunes it gives out. Stan's gonna be ticked when he finds out I was tampering with it, but at least I'm entertained for the time being."

"Well," Dipper said, "it's a sight better than the fortunes _he_ was giving out." Wendy laughed, and Dipper smiled and felt his pulse quicken.

Mabel chose that moment to enter the shop. "'Morning, all," she said in greeting.

"Hey, Mabel," Wendy replied. She looked the younger girl over for a few seconds. "Dang, you look tired, Mabes. You and Dipper are more like identical twins everyday, aren'tcha?"

"Hey!" Dipper snapped, but Mabel allowed a smile. "I've just been busy, that's all," she said.

"That makes one of us," Wendy said. "There hasn't been one customer in the gift shop today. Heck, I'd close up shop and just clock out if I weren't paid by the hour."

"You don't think anyone will show up today?" Mabel asked.

"I doubt it. Why?"

Mabel turned to Dipper. "Hey, Dipper, do you think you could work both our shifts for me today? As long as we're not busy here, I could always use the extra time over at Mr. Mason's house."

Dipper cringed. "Again? Mabel, I did both our jobs yesterday!"

"I know, I know," Mabel said. "And I'll make it up to you, I promise. It's just I'm right in the middle of this really great painting, and I really want to get some more work done on it-"

"Mabel," Dipper interrupted. "You can't keep spending your every waking hour over at that guy's house."

"Is this about not spending enough time with me?" Mabel asked. "Are you on that again? Because you can come with me if you want. Mr. Mason told me he wanted to get to know you better."

"Ugh, no thanks," Dipper said. "The man gives me the creeps. But not the point. Mabel, I'm not going to keep doing your work for you so you can go off and sculpt with your new buddy. Heck, you haven't even remembered to feed Waddles for three days!"

Mabel sighed. "Look, Dipper, tonight I'll take your shift doing the dishes or something, okay? But, I mean, it's not like there's a whole lot of work to be done around here right now, right?"

"But-"

"I'll see you later," she said. The little bell above the gift shop's door jingled as Mabel left.

Dipper sighed and climbed onto his stool beside the counter. "Aw, let her go," Wendy said. "In a few days, she'll get bored of that guy. Mabel's not one to stay all dead-set focused on one thing too long."

"I hope you're right," Dipper replied. "I swear, that art stuff of hers is taking over her whole mind."

Wendy snorted. "Come on, Dip, what harm could a little extra art do?"

Dipper gave her a smile. "Well, I wouldn't want her to overex-_art_ herself, right?" He laughed drily for a moment, before he noticed Wendy staring at him, her mouth and brows twisted into a grimace. "You, you see-" he stammered, "you see, because-"

"Yeah, no, I got it," Wendy said, still frowning. "Just... yeah, don't ever do that again."

"Right," Dipper mumbled, looking away as he felt a blush creep into his cheeks. He turned to glance out the window, just in time to watch his sister vanish over a bend in the road.

* * *

A/N: To make up for the fact that this chapter wasn't exactly high-action, I'm going to give you a little hint regarding Mr. Mason's big secret:

Lirtrmzoob, R szw kozmmvw gl hkvoo srh mznv "Nzrhlm"


	9. Chapter 9

"Mabel?" Mr. Mason called as he poked his head past the doorframe and into the workshop, having just heard a crash that shook the ground floor. "Is everything okay?"

Mabel clambered to her feet from where she had lain on the ground beside a fallen metal stepladder and a small tub of modeling clay that had hit the floor lid-down. "I'm fine," she replied. She smoothed down her hair and sweater, then leaned down to right the ladder. "Sorry. I was trying to get the clay off the shelf, since I finished my wire frame. Guess I got a little dizzy."

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"No." Mabel flashed a braces-filled smile. "I landed on my butt."

"Fascinating," Mr. Mason said. He turned to face one of the corners of the workshop, in which stood what looked like a three-dimensional stick figure made of thick metal wires, standing a good three feet high. "Would that be your frame over there?" he asked, gesturing toward it.

Mabel nodded. Mr. Mason strolled over to the frame and placed his index finger along the spine, tracing the shape. "I seem to recall you telling me you were planning to make a horse fairy princess; is that right?"

"I was," Mabel answered with a small cringe. "But, I don't know. I could barely keep my eyes open while I was making just this part of the frame. I figure maybe I need to take a break from more complex stuff. People bodies are easier to sculpt than horse bodies. I guess she'll end up just being a fairy princess."

"Hm," Mr. Mason mumbled. "I daresay this strikes me as a bit out of character for you, Mabel. Thus far, every idea you've had, you've run with all the way. I sincerely hope this doesn't indicate any waning enthusiasm on your part."

"Mr. Mason!" Mabel said. "I'm as enthusiastic as they come! I just need a little break from these harder sculptures, is all. I've been awful tired and everything lately, and I just figured I'd do something easier. Rest up a bit, you know?"

Mr. Mason turned to her and frowned thoughtfully. "You aren't falling ill, are you, Mabel?"

Mabel shook her head. "Nah. I've been taking my temperature, and Dipper's been double and triple checking it, of course. Always normal. And I haven't thrown up or anything like that. Just tired. Real tired."

"Well, that's a relief." Mr. Mason gave a short nod of his head before turning back to trace along the wire frame. "I would hate for you to be feeling sick, Mabel."

Mabel took a deep breath. "Well, not sick, exactly. But, Mr. Mason, I have been tired. I was thinking, maybe, I might go a couple of days without working on the art."

Mr. Mason froze, his finger holding still to where it had been running along the wire frame's neck. Behind him, Mabel could see he spine and shoulders stiffen, just enough to be noticeable. Without so much as turning his head, he slowly asked, "And why, Mabel, would you want to take a break?"

Mabel didn't miss the cold edge in the question. "You're not mad, are you Mr. Mason?"

The older man turned around now, a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course not, dear," he said. "I'm not mad. Never mad. Simply curious."

"Oh," Mabel said. "Well, it's just that, I've been shirking off an awful lot of work to come down here every day, and Grunkle Stan's not too happy about that. And then, I really haven't gotten much time to hang out with Dipper. And he's been getting pretty worked up about never seeing me around any more. And that's besides the fact that I haven't even knitted for days. I mean, I've already worn this sweater twice."

"I see," Mr. Mason said, nodding slowly. "You feel you've become too dedicated, is what you're saying?"

"Well, sort of."

"Hm." Mr. Mason walked across the room and sat down in a folding chair that had been pressed up to the corner of one of the supply shelves. "Well, Mabel, I cannot apologize sincerely enough. I in no way intended to deprive you of your work time or your other hobbies. I fear that I forgot a twelve-year-old girl wouldn't have the same sort of- _drive_, if you will- than an artist of a higher caliber."

Mabel bristled. "What do you mean, Mr. Mason?"

"Oh, Mabel, don't take it the wrong way," Mr. Mason said quickly with a hasty wave of his hand. "It's nothing against you. You have other priorities, nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. I mean, pursuing your art skill would take an enormous amount of time, of work. I should never have tried to force a little girl to take it so seriously, not yet, at least."

"I'm plenty serious!" Mabel snapped. "Well, actually, no, not really. But- but I can be! I can be so super duper serious about this art, I swear I could. It's just that, you know, with Grunkle Stan and Dipper and all-"

"Ah, yes," Mr. Mason said, his voice lowered almost to a growl. "I'm sure your family has only your very best interests in mind, correct?"

"Wha- yeah, of course they-"

"Still," the older man interrupted, "There's only so much stock I'd put in their direction. For instance, when it comes to dedication, well, I'm sure that great uncle of yours isn't exactly an expert. Mind you, it's been years since I ever visited that shack of his, but judging by the hokum I saw there, I get the feeling that Stan Pines wouldn't be quick to understand the value of quality."

"Mr. Mason-"

"And that brother of yours is bothered by it, too, correct? Can't say I'm entirely surprised. He's disliked me from the beginning, hasn't he? The paranoid one? Sorry, nothing against him, especially being your brother and all. It's upsetting though."

"Mr. Mason," Mabel said softly. "Dipper's reasons have nothing to do with that. Honest. It's just, he's been taking over my work and all, and we've hardly spent any time just hanging out together or going into the woods. I dunno, I guess we sort of miss each other."

Mr. Mason nodded. "I can understand that. It's only natural. I see no reason why you shouldn't make a little sacrifice on his behalf. According to what you've told me of your exploits, he's done so plenty of times."

Mabel smiled and nodded. "Oh, yeah, definitely."

"You've told me he gave up a party to help you fight a monster he provoked. Gave up a girl when he caused you to lose your pig. Sacrificed a job after nearly stopping you from saving your boyfriend." He paused, frowned, and placed his hand delicately on his chin. "You know, it's odd, Mabel. I notice the sacrifices he makes only come _after_ he causes some kind of hardship for _you_."

Mabel bit her lip. "Mr. Mason, it's not like that."

"No, I'm sure it isn't. It's only that I think if he's going to be selfish, no reason you shouldn't-" He cut himself off and leaned back into his chair with a shuddering sigh. "There you go again, Patrick. You try to resolve something and end up coming across as the bad guy." He closed his eyes. "Mabel, if you want to take a break for a couple of days, it's all right. I was foolish to think you'd rather spend your time in a dark workshop with a wizened old man than you would going out and following your dear brother."

"Mr. Mason?" Mabel said quietly.

He shook his head. "I had only meant to offer you a chance to hone your skills, perhaps form a friendship along the way. I do get lonely here, cooped up in the house with no one but my art for company. But that's hardly your fault, Mabel. And I am truly sorry if I've kept you away from more important things in this time."

Slowly and tenderly, Mabel placed a gentle hand on the wrinkled one with which Mr. Mason gripped his shaking knee. "You know, I don't have to take that break," she whispered.

He opened his eyes. "Oh, no, Mabel, don't do that for my sake. You don't have to keep coming if you don't want to. And it seems already your family disapproves."

"But I do want to," Mabel insisted. "I really do. And, you know what, Dipper and Stan have gotten by so far. I'd rather do my art. And I really want to keep you company, Mr. Mason. Honest."

Mr. Mason smiled up at her. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Mabel nodded. "Absotively posilutely," she said brightly.

Mr. Mason leaned in and wrapped his arms around Mabel in a gentle hug. "Thank you, Mabel. I'm so glad." The hug tightened. "And you really have no idea how much this means to me."

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I realize that it's been a couple of eons since I updated. I actually had this chapter all written up a couple weeks ago, but then my Sky Drive deleted it before I could copy it to Fanfiction. Well, that was incredibly frustrating and discouraging, so it wasn't until earlier today that I got up the heart to rewrite the entire thing. But, hey, it's here now, right? So, no need for torches and pitchforks, right?

...Right?


	10. Chapter 10

Stan Pines stood on the front porch of the Mystery Shack's gift shop, waving at the minivan that was pulling into the road. "Don't forget," he called, "we put the fun in no refunds!" He waited for the van to disappear from view, then stepped back into the shop with a grunt. "Ugh, thought those yahoos would never leave," he grumbled. He nodded at the two employees in the Shack. "That was probably the last of 'em, so you can head home now."

"Nuh-uh," Wendy said. She tilted back in her chair and lifted her feet onto the counter. "It's payday, Stan. I ain't leaving without a check. Right, Soos?"

Soos looked up from his broom. "Sure, dude," he said. "No offense, Mr. Pines, but I kinda have rent and all."

Stan groaned and pulled his checkbook out of his pocket. "I would have remembered," he said.

"Sure you would've," Wendy said. She stretched out her hand. "Deposit check here when you're done."

Her boss muttered to himself under his breath as he scrawled out a check. The moment it touched her hand, she slid off the stool and bolted out the door. Stan then turned to Soos and filled out a check for him.

"Uh, Mr. Pines?" Soos said. "I don't think you paid me for the full forty hours I worked this week."

"No, I did," Stan said. "But I had to dock you for those two brooms I broke the other day."

"Oh, that makes sense." Soos pocketed the check and turned to leave. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Pines!" he said with a wave as he left.

Stan pushed through the swinging door emblazoned with the words "Employees Only" and sank down into a kitchen chair. Dipper was in the den, nestled into Stan's overstuffed yellow armchair, his eyes glued to a _Tom and Jerry_ rerun dancing across the television screen. Stan stood and crossed the room to join him.

"Cat get him yet?" he asked. Dipper only grunted in response. "Where's Mabel?" Stan continued.

"Out," his nephew replied.

"When you say 'out', do you mean out at that Mr. Mason's house?"

Dipper straightened himself up in the chair. "Actually, no." He gave Grunkle Stan a small smile. "She told me she's taking a break from that. Left a note this morning saying she was spending the day with Candy and Grenda. I mean, it's not work, but at least it's a start. Looks like we finally got through to her, huh?"

"Good," Stan said. "Nothing against that Mason guy, of course. But I'm sick of being a worker short." He stood around by the armchair and watched as Tom set a bunch of mousetraps and started placing cartoony blocks of cheese on them, only to give out a yelp as they began snapping down on his tail. His attention was diverted when the doorbell rang.

"Could you get that, Dip?" he asked. "I need my caffeine fix for the day."

"No problem," Dipper said. He flicked the power button on the TV and climbed down from the armchair as Stan left to raid the gift shop's vending machine. He opened the front door, and was surprised to find Candy and Grenda standing across from him.

"Hi Dipper!" Candy said cheerfully, waving.

"Wha- wait, Candy? Grenda? What are you doing here?"

Grenda held up a DVD she'd had grasped in her beefy hand. The cover bore the title _Werewolves in Love_ stretched in bold blue letters across the top, complete with a very campy image of the titular half-beasts. "My mom and I found a whole bunch of these at a garage sale," Grenda said. "Does Mabel wanna come with us to have a werewolf movie marathon at my house?"

"My dad's here to give her a ride," Candy added, gesturing with her thumb to a green station wagon parked in front of the gift shop. "Where is Mabel?"

"What do you mean, where is Mabel?" Dipper said. "She told me this morning that she was going to spend the day with you two."

Candy and Grenda exchanged a glance, then both turned back to Dipper and shook their heads. "She hasn't been with us," Grenda said.

"In fact, I haven't gotten to see her in days," Candy said.

"But she said-" Dipper began, but then he stopped. A thought had just struck him.

Grenda frowned worriedly. "This doesn't mean Mabel's gone missing or something, does it? Should we call the cops? I've always wanted to call the cops."

"No, don't call the cops," Dipper said. "I think I have a pretty good idea where she is. You go ahead and start your movies; I'll have Mabel call you when she gets back."

"Sounds good," Grenda said. She and Candy turned and walked out to the station wagon. "Bye, Dipper!" Candy called, giving him another little wave before she closed the car door. Dipper only nodded in response.

He watched the station wagon back up and turn to face the road, then waited until it had left the yard before turning around to call, "Grunkle Stan! I'm going out!"

"Be back by midnight!" Stan yelled back from the gift shop.

Dipper stomped through the door, letting it slam shut behind him. He made his way up the road, and strolled down the path that Mabel took every day to visit her art mentor. All the way, he breathed deeply, trying not to let himself get angry, but it wasn't easy. Especially when he caught sight of Mabel further up the road, leaving through the gate marking the entrance to Mr. Mason's property.

As his sister turned from gate, she caught sight of Dipper and jumped. "Dipper!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"Really?" Dipper snapped. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question? Tell me, Mabel: when did Candy and Grenda move in with Mr. Mason?"

Mabel's face had turned pink, and she began twirling a strand of her hair around one of her fingers. "I was with them!" she said hastily. "This morning. I only just now stopped by Mr. Mason's house."

Dipper scowled. "I just talked to Candy and Grenda. Mabel, you promised that you were going to take a break from visiting Mr. Mason!"

"I never promised, exactly-"

"Mabel, look at you! You're all pale and tired, and I think you've even lost weight!" Dipper sighed, and some of the anger ebbed out of his voice. "This didn't start until you began spending all your time with Mr. Mason. You don't think there's some sort of correlation?"

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Dipper, I'm fine," she said. "And what the heck were you going to do here, anyway? Were you really going to try and order me out of his house? Not enough that you boss me around at home, huh? You have to do it here, too?"

Dipper stared at her, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about?" he asked, incredulous. "I don't boss you around!"

"Sure you do. All those times when you roped me into your stupid magic-y stuff just so you could, like, try and get Wendy's attention and stuff. And like how you're always bugging me about not spending time with you. If it bugs you so much, why don't you make your own friends for once like I do?"

Only then did Dipper realize his mouth had fallen open. He closed it and swallowed. "What's got you talking like this Mabel?" he asked softly, trying to keep the sting from his voice.

"Nothing's 'got me talking like this'!" Mabel practically shouted. "Maybe I've just been thinking, huh? What, first you don't want me to do my art, now you don't want me to think?"

"Mabel-"

"I'm starting to think Mr. Mason has a point," she mumbled.

Dipper frowned. "What do you mean? What's Mr. Mason been saying?"

Mabel grabbed her hair. "Nothing! I don't know! It doesn't matter! Gosh, Dipper, do you have to imperatate me?"

"Interrogate," Dipper corrected her.

"Whatever!" Mabel said. "Look, what I talk about with Mr. Mason is my business. And, hey, look, I'm done for the day, okay? You happy about that?" She started heading back down the street toward the Mystery Shack. "Come on, let's just go home."

"You go ahead," Dipper said, waving her away. "I've got stuff to do."

Mabel cringed. "Oh, good God, Dipper," she groaned. "You're not seriously going to go interrogivate Mr. Mason now, are you?"

"No," Dipper said quickly, not bothering to correct her this time. "I'm, uh, I'm heading over to the library. You know, before it closes."

Mabel turned away again. "Whatever. Guess I'll see you tonight, then."

"Yeah, tonight," Dipper muttered. He turned around and started walking the other way up the road, towards town.

After a few seconds, he turned back. Mabel had her back to him, and was marching away, her curly hair swinging behind her.

Dipper watched as she turned a corner, then twirled back around to face Mr. Mason's house._ If she can lie about visiting this guy,_ he thought, _so can I_. He pushed open the gate and stepped through.

* * *

A/N: So, yesterday was the one-year anniversary of Gravity Falls! And since we've had only 17 episodes so far, that averages out at about one episode everyone twenty-one and a half days. Math can be depressing.

Anyway, leave your review!


	11. Chapter 11

Dipper rapped his knuckles against the door the instant he reached the front of the decaying house. "Mr. Mason!" he shouted amid his knocks. "Mr. Mason!"

His fist suddenly connected with nothing but air, and he looked up to see Mr. Mason standing, holding the open door, a smirk on his wrinkled face. "My, oh my," he said. "Isn't this a delightful surprise."

"We need to talk," was the only greeting Dipper offered in return.

"I see you finally took me up on my offer to let you visit," Mr. Mason said, stepping back so Dipper could enter the house. The latter stepped into the house and looked around the den like his sister had weeks before, but with her excitement replaced by his wariness.

"I'm not really here to visit," Dipper said. He was looking away from Mr. Mason, his eyes darting around the gallery of sculptures and paintings. "I needed to talk to you. About Mabel."

Silence. Dipper turned around and raised his eyebrow. "Did you hear me? I said I needed-"

"Yes, yes, I heard you," Mr. Mason interrupted. "I had simply thought that the first time you came by, I would get the chance to talk about you."

"Maybe next time," Dipper replied, knowing as he said it that he did not want there to be a next time. "Could we sit or something?"

Mr. Mason waved his hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Go ahead and sit at the table. I had groceries delivered today, so I could get you a snack, if you'd like. Do you want Chipackers? Your sister, I know, has something of a fondness for them."

"No thanks," Dipper said. "Not hungry. But, yeah, we can sit there." He started to walk into the kitchen, expecting the older man to follow close behind, but he stopped when he heard a click. He turned around to see Mr. Mason leaning over the doorknob. "Uh, Mr. Mason?" he said. "Did you just lock that door?"

Mr. Mason looked up, a bemused and innocent expression on his face. "Naturally," he stated. "Even in a small town like this, burglary is not unheard of."

Dipper frowned. "I'd rather you didn't."

"No, why-" Mr. Mason began, but he quickly stopped and smiled. "Ah, I understand." He flipped the lock back. "There you go. It appears my plan to trap you in a spooky house with a madman has been foiled. What a shame."

Dipper set his jaw. "Could we just go sit down?" he snapped.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Mason replied. He strode into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for Dipper, then walked over to the fridge. "I have apple juice," he said, leaning in to examine the sparse contents of the refrigerator. "I'll pour you a glass."

"You don't have to," Dipper said as he climbed into the chair.

Mr. Mason let out a laugh. "Now, Dipper, as long as you're here, you're going to have to allow me to show some sort of hospitality." He pulled out the carton of juice, took a clear glass from a cabinet overheard, filled the glass, and set it down in front of his guest. "There you are, on the house," he said. He stood beside Dipper for a moment, then laughed as the boy eyed the glass with suspicion. "Here," he said, picking up the glass and taking a sip. "See? No poison."

"I didn't think there was," Dipper said, snatching the glass back. "I'm just not thirsty, that's all. Could we just talk now?"

With a sigh, the old man heaved himself into a chair opposite Dipper. "Certainly, certainly. I was only trying to play host."

"Yeah, it's about that," Dipper said. He traced the rim of his glass of juice with his finger. "Mr. Mason, don't you think Mabel's been spending an awful lot of time here?"

Mr. Mason frowned. "Well, I suppose," he replied slowly.

"And, look, it's not your fault or anything, but, well, all the time she spends here is time she hasn't been working or hanging out with her family and friends. Well, basically, I wanted to ask if you could, you know, not have her over so often."

Mr. Mason was silent for a moment, as though lost in thought. Then his frown deepened, and he replied, "I see. You're upset that Mabel found something she enjoys more than spending time with you, and you're determined to put an end to it."

Dipper's finger froze on the rim of his cup. "What?" he said, stunned. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Mr. Mason replied. "Mabel and I have already talked. Now, I did tell her that she appeared to be here quite a bit, and that it was perfectly fine for her to take a break if she wanted one. But your sister comes entirely on her own. It is hardly my fault if she would rather craft works of art than follow you around hunting goblins or pixies or-"

"_What?_" Dipper said again. His nails started to dig into the wood where he was gripping the table. "When did she talk to you about that stuff?"

"Your face is going red, Dipper," Mr. Mason said lightly. "There's no need to be embarrassed by it. As a matter of fact, I find your little hobby quite interesting."

"Well, if you don't mind I'd prefer it if you lost interest. 'Sides, we're not talking about that."

"Of course we aren't." Mr. Mason nodded. "We were discussing your sister. But really, there's only so much to discuss, isn't there, and I'm much more-"

"There's plenty more," Dipper said. The words came out almost as a snarl. "Mr. Mason, you may not have noticed, but Mabel's been falling apart at the seams."

Mr. Mason sighed. "Now, you can hardly blame me for any changes Mabel's had in physical health. And I'm sure if she were really not well, she would choose not to come."

"Oh really?" Dipper said. "Can't blame you? So it's just a coincidence that the dizzy spells and short temper only started up once she started spending every waking hour with you?"

A small smile twitched on the corner on the old man's lips. "Now, see," he said, "this is the problem with children trying to play private investigator. No logic to it. You seem to be mistaking correlation with causation. An easy error to make."

Dipper's scowl deepened. "Fine, I don't have any solid evidence," he consented. "But I do know that you're starting to hold way too much influence on her. And it's affecting all of us. Badly."

"And you felt that the proper solution was for her little brother to be surrogate guardian, and confront the evil wizard casting his spell? Have you perhaps considered telling your sister your concerns, instead of me?"

"I have. She's stubborn."

The smile that had been tugging at the old man's face broadened. "Ah," he said. "And how dreadful it must be to have a twin who is so terribly stubborn, hm?"

Dipper's face felt hot as he stood up, his chair skidding back with a loud squeak. "Would you knock that off? Talking to me like I'm a little kid?"

"Certainly," Mr. Mason replied, his smirk still chiseled onto his face. "And in return, I only request that you stop behaving like one. Also-" he stood from his chair, reached across the table, and snatched Dipper's hand, "-I would appreciate it if you wouldn't press your nails into the wood quite so firmly. This table is hand-carved."

"Don't- don't grab my hand!" Dipper yelled, yanking it away.

"Well, forgive me for attempting to keep a volatile temper in check."

"Would you just-"

They both fell immediately silent as a crash sounded directly above him. Dipper turned his eyes up to the ceiling, curious, as Mr. Mason flopped back onto the chair with a deep, exasperated exhale. "What was that crash?" Dipper asked. His voice was half the volume it had been before the crash.

Mr. Mason closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "It wasn't anything," he muttered. "Sculptures, they fall sometimes, and they break. Not exactly a cause for celebration, but nothing to worry about." He opened his eyes again and smiled at his young guest, more weakly than before. "Perhaps we ought to switch to a topic that is a bit less aggravating, hm? You still haven't given me a chance to ask about your-"

"Actually, I think I'm finished here," Dipper hastily interrupted. "I should be heading home."

"But, Dipper-"

"I'll show myself out."

Dipper half-ran out of the kitchen, leaving the old man in his seat. He made a show of stepping loudly toward the front door, then opened it, closed it, and stood to listen. Mr. Mason hadn't moved from the kitchen. Dipper turned to the staircase and began tip-toeing up along the wall- a trick that Stan had taught both the twins when he snuck them into the balcony of the cinema in lieu of actually purchasing a ticket.

At the top of the steps, Dipper faced a series of closed doors, but a quick glance told him that the one farthest along the hall on the right would be the one right over the kitchen. Still taking care to tip-toe, he made his way over and opened the door.

The open doorway revealed what Dipper could only assume was the master bedroom, judging by the unmade, queen-sized canopy bed that graced the middle of the room and the armoire in the corner. Otherwise, however, it was practically indistinguishable from every other room Dipper had seen, in that it seemed to function mainly as a miniature art gallery. The walls, besides the windows and the smaller fireplace that jutted from one wall, were full to bursting with artwork. A painting of a family picnic on a cloudy beach; a sculpture of a wizened, hunched-over man in a hooded cloak, holding a lantern out in front of him; a wax woman in a frilly dress, with one hand on her hip and the other in her hair. One sculpture, though, stood out from the others: a sculpted minstrel, complete with oversized sleeves and a clay lute, lay on the ground, broken by several jagged cracks that ran from his feathered hat to his pointed shoes.

So that was it. The crash had come from a sculpture breaking, just as Mr. Mason had said. Dipper squatted down next to it to get a better look. The art wasn't fantastic, but it was a still very pretty, and Dipper felt a hint of surprise that Mr. Mason hadn't been more upset by its breaking.

He put his hand onto the bed and began to stand back up, but he paused. Something about the bedcover felt off. He lifted his hand off the bed, drew it back, and flipped it over to look at the palm. A thin layer of gray dust had made its way into the ridges of his hand.

"Huh," he mumbled. "That's odd." He patted the bedspread, and a cloud of dust rose up from the comforter and hovered in the air above it. Dipper frowned and looked around the room. Come to think of it, the whole place was dusty, even the knobs of the armoire that should have seen daily use.

His eyes then fell on the bed's nightstand, and he approached it curiously. A quarter-full glass of water sat on top, and thin film of green had made its home on the water's surface, almost making the drink look like stagnant pondwater. Dipper slowly dipped a finger into water, and the green rippled out from where he touched it._ I didn't even know water in a glass could go stagnant like that,_ he thought._ Dang, it must have been here for ages. In fact-_ his thoughts returned to the room's surplus of dust-_ this whole room seems like it hasn't been touched in years. _

Just as the thought was crossing his mind, a loud sound burst from behind him, causing him to jump and knock over the glass. He whipped around and saw that the bedroom door had been slammed shut. In a flash, he hurried over to the door and tugged on the knob, only to find it stuck fast. And there didn't seem to be a lock on the inside.

"I know that you do not particularly like it when I lock doors," he heard Mr. Mason's voice come from behind him, from in the room itself, sending a chill up the back of Dipper's neck. "Then again, you also told me you were leaving, and that wasn't quite true, was it, Dipper?"

* * *

A/N: Hope you're enjoying the story so far! Mean old PaperKayak has put Dipper into a sticky situation, because, you know, he just doesn't get into enough of them all ready.

Review, follow, favorite, and all that jazz!


	12. Chapter 12

Slowly, shakily, Dipper drew his hand away from the doorknob. He took a deep breath and turned around, ready to face Mr. Mason.

And he saw no one. He was alone in the room.

"M-Mr. Mason?" he said, hating the tremor in his voice as he called out the name. Silence. _You're hearing things, Dipper_, he thought in a panic. He whipped back around to the door and shook the unyielding knob, no longer concerned about remaining quiet. But as he did so, a hand dropped down onto his own.

Dipper's eyes followed up the arm of a hand to see its owner, and stood stunned. The sculpture of the hooded hunchback had shifted positions, and now was no longer holding out its lantern as though exploring by its light, but had let the arm holding it fall to his side, while the other reached out and joined Dipper's at the doorknob. And his face was turned toward Dipper in a bizarre, broad grin.

"Well, you certainly won't unlock it that way," the hunchback said. But his voice didn't match his wizened appearance. Instead, the voice that left the sculpture's mouth was one Dipper had heard before. From Mr. Mason.

"Gyaah!" Dipper cried out, tearing his hand away. The hunchback laughed, and Dipper fell back onto the floor as he darted back from the statue. He scooted away, and ended up bumping up against the wax woman in the frilly dress.

To his horror, he felt the thin and feminine shape of her hand rest on his shoulder. "Oh, come now, Dipper," the woman said softly into his ear, and Dipper shivered as her voice was once again that of Mr. Mason. "Your sister told us you've encountered living art before. There's no reason for you to be so shocked.

His scream got lost somewhere in his throat as he scrambled away from the woman. As he did, the statue of the woman went still again, and Mr. Mason's voice was taken over by a large charcoal drawing of a suited man on the wall, laughing lightly. "Aw, would you look at that? The poor creature's terrified."

Dipper stared up at the charcoal drawing, now the only piece of art displaying signs of life. He backed away until he reached the wall hosting the miniature fireplace, then felt around the space without taking his eyes off the drawing. "Stay back, all of you," he said, as he found what he had been searching for and wrapped his hand around the metal poker that leaned up against the bricks. "I've dealt with things like you before and I'll do it again."

Suddenly, he felt a sharp hot sting in his hand. He let out a loud yelp and released the poker, then turned around to see a tongue of flame seeping back into the fireplace, and the poker glowing a faint red.

"Ah ah ah, Dipper," the suited man said, smirking. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to play with fire?"

"What do you want?!" Dipper cried. He gripped tightly onto the burnt hand, trying to ignore the sting.

"Would you listen to that?_ Now_ he actually wants to know what _I_ want. And only minutes before, he wouldn't listen to a word I said."

Dipper stared at the drawing, baffled. "What are you talking about? I've never talked to you before!"

"True, you've never talked to that drawing," piped up a statuette depicting an old woman in a bonnet. "Not surprising, as very few see sense in speaking to the art around them. But you did talk to that stiff downstairs. So, yes, you have spoken to me before."

"You're crazy, all of you!" was the only thing Dipper could think of to say.

The woman in the frilly dress laughed. "_All of us?_ You're really not that much of a detective, are you, boy? I see you're going to need it all spelled out for you." She flashed a smile, and in an instant, every sculpted and painted faced turned to Dipper and matched the grin. "There's only one of me," chorused a multitude of Mr. Mason's voices.

Dipper felt his jaw drop. "Wha- how did-?"

"You know," interrupted a watercolor fisherman, twiddling with his line as he sat on a pier with his feet dangling over the side, "There was an interesting little belief in an old Native American tribe, that when an artisan crafts an object, a little piece of his spirit, of his life, goes into that object, and lives on inside it."

"Of course-" and here the old lady in the bonnet took over- "I'm certain the man who built me wasn't aware of that old belief. A pity, for him. Less so for me."

The charcoal man smiled. "If he had lived, I wouldn't have. One door closes, another opens. Ah, but not that door, boy," he added, and the hunchback tripped Dipper as the latter had begun edging along the wall toward the bedroom door, then planted his foot on top of the boy to pin him to floor. "Isn't the little mystery hunter even a bit curious as to the secrets of his wicked old neighbor?"

Dipper scowled up at the drawing. "Fine," he snarled. "Talk, then let me up."

The frilly-dressed woman smiled. "You're an angry one, aren't you? He was too, you know. Patrick Mason, I mean. Very passionate and driven, too. I believe that's why he took up art in the first place. A sort of outlet for him."

She leaned down toward Dipper. "And what fortune that he did. You see, boy, the noble sacrifice of my creator may have given me life, but there is a wide difference between being alive and truly living. So imagine my joy when I realized that the life Patrick put into his art while within me gave me the strength that it did." She held up her arms and examined them fondly. "Extraordinary, isn't it? It is as though I am a brain, and these, all these creations, have become my body. Anything made by the sweat and hands of humankind, a bit of spirit goes in, and goes straight to me."

"Well, sadly, life is not a limitless resource." The suited man picked up the narrative. "The more I lived through Patrick's sculptures, the more quickly my supply was depleted. Oh, the man was more than willing to resupply me, but that could only last so long. He began to fade, after a time. He ignored it all, of course, attributed the fatigue to old age. Then, halfway through a sculpture, he drops dead to the floor. Poor fool." He added that last almost with affection, the sort that an owner would show to a pet. "But at least I was able to add a bit to my body. He lived in me, and now, I could live in him."

"But it wasn't as if that was the only source of life out there," said the hunchback. Dipper craned his neck upward to try to see the man's face from his position on the floor. "As long the artwork was created inside me, it was mine to live through. And I was always careful. I would never take so much life that an artist wasn't always left with a little extra to give, and I was cautious to use the life only when necessary, to conserve it for later."

Dipper could tell by as much as he could see in his peripheral vision that the hunched man was shaking his head. "Alas, it was not enough. You have no idea what it's like, Dipper, when the only part of the world you can ever see is yourself and what's inside you. I will admit, I became greedy. One artist came to me only a few years ago, a girl younger even than your sister; in fact, you may have seen the sculpture she made of herself on display in my kitchen. You would be astounded, boy, by the amount of life possessed by little girls, dormant and ready for use." He sighed. "I took too much. Hastiness, on my part. Quite a waste, but at least for a moment, I was more alive than ever before."

"And, Dipper, I very much enjoyed being alive," said the fisherman. He reeled in his line, frowned at the fake fly attached to the end, then tossed the bait back into the water. "So when one of my artists claimed to be rather well-versed in the world of the paranormal, and told me he could find a way for me to live outside of my own four walls, it sounded too good to be true." He tilted his head. "He was a curious man, an adult version of you, Dipper. Although not so stubborn. And much more trusting."

The lady in the bonnet sighed. "Sadly, my little sorcerer didn't last. I had allowed him access to all the resources he would need, and near the end, he told me he was so close to the answer, to giving me the life I needed. And then, one day, he stops. Says he refused to help me with my problem any further, and that he'd sooner destroy me than allow any part of me to leave my four walls. Naturally, I had to dispose of him. But it left all of his work tragically unfinished."

The woman in the frilly dress knelt down in front of Dipper, took his chin firmly in her hand, and tilted his head back so he was looking straight into her sculpted eyes. "And that," she said, Mr. Mason's voice bizarrely dissonant in her delicate features, "is where you come in."

Dipper gaped at her. "Are you out of your mind?!" he cried. "You go around draining people of their lives, my sister included, and you expect me to help you do it _more?_"

She smiled. "Ah, so you're not completely stupid. Dipper, the people I drained all were given ample opportunity to live good lives, if not long ones. I have not. I am only asking that you help to give me that chance. I was so thrilled when your sister told me you possess knowledge of this little town's magic. I don't know when another such mind will come along, and I'm rather reluctant to let it go."

"Forget it," Dipper growled. "There, I listened to you, and I gave you my answer. Now get your statue off me so I can leave."

The woman went still, and Dipper felt the weight of the hunched man's foot lift off of his back. He stood up, and was just getting his bearings, when his felt something wrap around his neck and yank him to side. The back of his head slammed against a bedpost, leaving stars dancing across his vision. He looked up to see what had gotten a hold of his neck, and his eyes followed the path of a thick drapery cord that held up the bed's canopy and now pinned him to the post by his throat.

The hunchbacked man walked forward and looked at Dipper. "It's almost cute, that you thought this was optional," he said. "When I said I was reluctant to let you go, I'm afraid I may have been understating a bit. I won't take no for an answer."

"You're insane!" Dipper yelled. He grabbed the drapery cord and tried to pull it away, but it wouldn't yield.

"Not the answer I was looking for," the hunchback said calmly. "But I'll wait. It shouldn't take more than a minute or two for you to come to your senses."

"What do you-" Dipper began, but his question was cut off as he let out a choked gasp. The cord around his neck had tightened suddenly, crushing his windpipe and blocking out all air. The back of his head throbbed as it was pushed more firmly into the edge of the post.

Dipper's fingers scrambled at his neck, trying to get a grip on the cord. The effort seemed futile, and slowly his vision began to blur and his head to feel light. All the while, the art stood stoically about the room, coolly watching the ordeal. "Anytime you're ready to change your mind, Dipper," came Mr. Mason's voice from one of the works; Dipper couldn't tell which.

He felt blood start to make its way along his neck from where his fingernails had scratched into his skin in an effort to take hold of the cord. His sight was turning to fog, and a ringing had begun building in his ears. He opened his mouth to try to shout, but all that came out was a choked gulp.

"What's that, Dipper?" He heard Mr. Mason's voice lightly say as through from a mile away. "Are you trying to say something?"

"_Fine!_" Dipper managed to gasp out. Immediately, the drapery cord relinquished its hold, and he dropped to the ground, gasping and retching. He rubbed his bleeding neck gingerly, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him, then glared up at the room. "Fine," he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "I'll help you."

The charcoal man smiled broadly. "Now, then, that wasn't so difficult, was it? See? There was no need for you to be so afraid of me."

* * *

A/N: So, I recently took a mission trip down to Pensacola to work on some houses for Habitats for Humanity. Afterward, I came back home, then left again for my college orientation. Anyway, that's why it took so long to update. For a while, I'm going to be busy finishing up everything at home and then beginning my life at college, so updates may be kinda sporadic. But I promise, cross my heart, hope to die, that nothing I write will ever become a dead fic. Every story I begin, I do so already knowing how it will end.

In the meantime, review, favorite, follow, send me chocolate, draw fanart, and vote for me in the general election of 2016.


	13. Chapter 13

As had become her usual, Mabel's eyes creaked open groggily after the sun had already been up for hours. It sometimes felt to her like years since she had shot awake at the crack of dawn as if everyday were Christmas morning; lately, she couldn't imagine why anyone would ever want to get out of bed.

The lack of any weight at her feet let Mabel know that Waddles was already up and about. Dipper had probably taken charge of him this morning, or Grunkle Stan. She knew for sure that her uncle was awake, since she could hear his voice from downstairs, talking loudly to someone. Probably a group of tourists. She rolled over in bed and wrapped her pillow around her ears, trying to get back to sleep.

She felt sleep coming after a few minutes when the sheep she had been counting all began to blur together into one white, fluffy amoeba. However, just as she was about to drop off, her doze was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then of the attic door creeping open.

Mabel rolled back over and looked over at the doorway to see her great uncle standing there. She assumed he was just there to check on her, and was fully prepared to shoo him away and try to get back to sleep, but a second glance told her something was wrong. Stan was still attired in his blue striped boxers and white undershirt, while normally by this time he would have donned his signature suit and eyepatch. What was more, he was clutching a cell phone- and ancient and bulky one, sure, but that was still more than he'd normally ever allow himself.

"Grunkle Stan?" she asked dazedly, her voice still thick from sleep."Something wrong?"

"Oh, good, you're awake," Stan said, hurrying into the room and squatting down beside his half-asleep niece. "Mabel, your parents gave you and Dipper a cell phone to use while you were out here, didn't they?"

"Um, yeah," Mabel said slowly. "Why?"

"Last night, who had the phone, you or Dipper?"

Mabel paused to think. "I did, I think. Dipper doesn't use it much, and I need it to text Candy and Grenda."

Stan sighed and rubbed his forehead, shoving his glasses out of place as he did. "Mabel," he continued, "did Dipper try to call or text you on that phone last night?"

"Erm, I don't know," Mabel said hesitantly. "I went to bed early. Why? Where's Dipper?"

"Could you check your phone, Mabel?"

Mabel sat up and rubbed her eyes, then shuffled heavily out of bed and over to the backpack where she kept the phone. She flipped it open. The home screen announced that she had two new text messages- one each from Candy and Grenda- and eighteen missed calls. She opened them to find that they had all come from Grunkle Stan, and all between midnight and four in the morning. He had left four voicemails.

"Did you get any calls or messages from Dipper?" Grunkle Stan asked behind her. Mabel shook her head silently. "Damn," Stan muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead again. "Damn, damn, damn."

"Grunkle Stan, what's wrong? Where's Dipper?" Mabel asked, a note of dread in her voice. She had never seen her uncle like this before.

"I wish I knew," Stan groaned. "Mabel, your brother never came home last night."

Mabel stared at him. "He-" she said, "he- what? He's not back?"

Stan shook his head. "I sat up all night waiting up for him," he said. "After midnight I started to really get worried, started calling him. He never picked up. And I tried to get ahold of the library, since that's where you said he was going, but they don't answer their phones at night, while they're closed. Had to wait until this morning, and they told me no one had seen anyone with his description there last night."

"Did you tell the cops?"

Stan snorted. "Oh, you mean Chief Wiggum and Barney Fife? Yeah, course I called 'em. According to them, twelve years old is old enough to be considered 'potential runaway' instead of clear-cut 'missing child', so apparently they're not supposed to put out an alert unless he's been gone for at least twenty-four hours. Lousy, useless twits, those two. I bet they only made that rule up to get back at me for the seeing-eye bear incident or something."

Mabel gulped. "So- so what have you been doing? So far?"

"Not much I can do," Stan replied, his frustration clear in his voice. "I've been calling up any place I thought he might have wandered off to, everywhere from the diner to the arcade. The people in town know him fairly well, what with his little Agent Mulder act, so they'd know him if they see him. Oh, I tried to let your parents know, too. Called them this morning, got an answer from a neighbor who was house-sitting. Apparently your parents are off on a cruise somewhere, won't be back for a while."

His niece nodded. The previous summer, the twins' parents had tried to take them on a family cruise around the Baja Peninsula. By the end of day one, Mabel was green with seasickness, and Dipper staunchly refused to risk even setting foot in their below-decks cabin. The cruise company had ended up sending out a little boat to take them back to shore, and gave their parents a partial refund. She figured it was only natural that they'd want to try again on their own.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" Mabel asked.

"Figured I'd start driving," Stan said. "Check the park, and the dump, and, I don't know, just ask around for him, I guess."

"I'll search for him too!" Mabel said. She went to her dresser, pulled out a sweater, and yanked it on over her nightgown. "We can split up. We'll cover more ground that way. I'll check out the woods, and you-"

"No," Stan's voice sharply cut her off. "No, no, absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I've already lost one of you little ankle-biters," Stan snapped. "I don't intend to lose another."

Mabel scowled. "What, so I'm just supposed to sit here in the Shack, or just ride along in your smelly old car while you ask the questions? Grunkle Stan, I have to do _something_. Look, I'll take the phone, I'll call you every ten minutes so you know I'm okay. And I could take along some of that pepper spray Wendy keeps under the counter in the gift shop."

Stan frowned. "I don't like it," he growled, but Mabel knew that he was giving in. She darted out of the attic, moving faster than she had in weeks, barely noticing her uncle shouting, "Be careful!" to her from the doorway.

The sun was almost directly overhead, and the humidity was enough to make anyone start sweating profusely even without wearing an oversized sweater, but Mabel didn't even notice as she stepped through the trees at the edge of the forest, her eyes peeled for any trace of blue or vermillion that may belong to her brother. She began her trek closer to the road, where the trees were thinner, but planned to go deeper into the woods as time went on.

"Mabel? Mabel Pines!" she heard a voice call. She pivoted toward the voice calling her name, and was surprised to see that she was facing Mr. Mason's house; in her concentration, she hadn't even realized she was approaching it. The man himself was waving at her through the kitchen window. Mabel climbed over the fence and ran up to meet him.

"No sculpting today, I suppose?" he asked in greeting as Mabel approached him.

The latter shook her head. "Sorry, Mr. Mason, but a bit of a family emergency's come up. My brother went missing last night."

Mr. Mason raised an eyebrow. "Dipper, you mean? The neurotic one?"

Mabel nodded. "Yeah. He told me last night he was going to the library, but something must have happened on the way or something, 'cause he never showed up. You didn't see him at all last night, did you?" she added hopefully.

The older man shook his head. "I can't say that I have. I'm very sorry, Mabel. But, try not to worry too much, hm? From what you've told me, he's a smart boy. I'm sure he's not put himself in any danger."

Mabel sighed. "Yeah, sure. Not like he's gotten himself into danger before, right?"

Mr. Mason frowned. "Oh, right, you've told me, haven't you? The sea monster, the ghosts, the psychic who tried to cut out his tongue." He cleared his throat. "Well, your brother's probably due for a little normality. I'll keep my eyes open for him. If there's anything else I can do, just let me know."

"No, I don't think there is," Mabel said sadly. "Thanks anyway, Mr. Mason." She waved good-bye to her neighbor, then climbed back over the fence and into the forest, ready again to pick up the search.

* * *

A/N: A few nights ago, while listening to the original Canadian cast recording of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat", I was struck by an inspiration. I decided that Reverse!Pacifica should be named Atlantica Southeast. Any input? Yay? Nay?

Oh yeah: review, favorite, yadda yadda yadda.


	14. Chapter 14

"And there you are," Mr. Mason said as he flicked on the dusty overhead lamp from its switch on the wall. "Consider this your little home office for the duration of your stay."

He shoved Dipper into the room with his other hand, with what Dipper felt was more force than necessary. He rubbed his back and glared at the older man over his shoulder. "So, what?" he said. "You're just gonna keep me locked in here 'til I figure out how to get you out of the house?"

Mr. Mason smiled and raised his eyebrows. "You do me a disservice, boy, thinking me so unreasonable," he replied lightly. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you only in here. The bathroom's through the door to the right of this room. Just knock on the door if you need to use it, and I've several sculptures in the hall through whom I will be happy to escort you."

"And what do you expect me to do for food and water, huh?" Dipper asked, his glower deepening. "You plan on letting me go all the way downstairs?"

"Goodness, no. I'll bring it upstairs."

"What about sleeping?"

"The floor here is carpeted."

"Fantastic," Dipper grumbled. He turned away from Mr. Mason- or, that is, Mr. Mason's animated body. He still hadn't entirely come to grips with his neighbor being just a puppet controlled by a thinking house. He looked around the room that the house had dubbed his own "home office", although there wasn't much to explore. It was a small, windowless room, lit by a single hanging lamp, whose light was obscured by a shade topped by a thick layer of dust. The only other furnishings in the room were a desk, a chair, and a four-tiered shelf, all made of darkly varnished wood. The shelf was about a third filled by books of varying sizes, and the desk covered by scrawled-on papers and one book volume opened to a section in the middle, where Dipper could see the edge that remained of several torn-out pages. The carpeted floor was home to inkstains, burn marks, and a multitude of paper scraps, some bearing text, some blank.

Mr. Mason put his hand on Dipper's shoulder, an act which made the latter grimace. "Not quite the Library of Congress," Mr. Mason remarked, "but you should have all the resources you need. In any case, it was enough for my previous paranormal scholar. Speaking of him, it would appear that he wasn't particularly organized with his research. You'll excuse me for not having tidied up since his departure.

Dipper rifled through the loose papers on the desk. Some were clearly pages that had been torn out of books, but most of them appeared to be handwritten, probably by the room's previous tenant. All of the papers were filled out to the edges of all the margins with text, charts, and sketches. "So," Mr. Mason said behind him. "You think you'll be able to finish up the puzzle?"

Dipper let out a breath. "I can't guarantee anything," he replied.

"Well, I believe it would be in both of our best interests if you start to work now," Mr. Mason said. "After all, neither one of us is getting out of this house while we still don't have that answer."

"Are you saying once I figure it out, you'll let me leave?" Dipper asked, an eyebrow raised.

Mr. Mason paused for a moment, as though carefully pondering Dipper's question. Then, he smiled his signature smirk and placed his hand on the doorknob. "Why, Dipper," he answered, "It pains me that you would think anything else." With that, he stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Dipper dashed to the door and yanked fruitlessly on the immobile knob. "That's not an answer!" he shouted. He pounded on the wood with his fists. "Mr. Mason! Get back here and give me a real answer!" He kept banging on the door until he finally accepted that Mr. Mason was making it a point to ignore him. "Damn," he spat, the worst curse word he knew.

With a sigh, Dipper turned away and took a seat in the wooden chair, facing the cluttered desk. The scrawls of ink and walls of typefont swam in his vision. It was going to take ages for him to decipher all of it, and even longer for him to make sense of it.

He picked up the page closest to him and began to read, resigned. For now, time was all he had.

* * *

Mabel sat in her uncle's lap in his oversized armchair, watching the television screen through half-closed lids. Several hours ago, enough time had passed for the police to issue an official missing person alert, which came in the form of loud beeping on a blacked-out screen, followed by a monotonously-read physical description of Dipper before the alert clicked back to the scheduled program. Now, stretching toward midnight, the alert was still up, but had been moved to the scrolling text at the bottom of the local news.

Still, there wasn't much else for Dipper's family to do but watch TV, letting the alert roll across the screen over and over. The two of them had spent the entire afternoon darting all over town, both searching every nook and cranny for Dipper and informing the rest of the town of his absence. They were sure they had left no rock unturned, but there had been no sign of him anywhere.

Just as Mabel was ready to drop off, the telephone in the kitchen rang shrilly. Stan came out of his doze with a snort and hurried to the phone, letting Mabel fall to the floor with a grunt.

He yanked the device off of its receiver. "Stan Pines! Hello? Hello?" he said breathlessly by way of greeting. "What? You found-? Ugh, for the love of God, Soos!" His anxious face immediately switched to frustration. "Look, I sell those hats by the bulk! Of course you're going to find some others around town just like it; doesn't mean it has anything to do with Dipper!" He sighed. "Please tell me you didn't report some other innocent kid as a suspect." He paused, then, "Goddamnit, Soos, you're killing my business here! Yes, we're open tomorrow, usual time. Try not to do any more witch-hunting 'til then." He hung up without a farewell, then shuffled back into his armchair.

"No luck?" Mabel asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Stan shook his head. "This town," he muttered. "The cops don't do a lick of work, and the ones who _do_ try to help can't do squat. I swear, if that brother of yours has run off and gotten himself killed-" He stopped and scowled. "Aw, gee, kid, I shouldn't have said that."

Mabel crawled back into his lap. "It's okay," she said. "You're worried. I'm worried too."

"Yeah, well." Stan cleared his throat. "Guess we ought to be hittin' the sack, huh? Not likely we'll get any new leads at this hour." He rolled Mabel off of him. "Come on, up the stairs."

The two made their way into the foyer and up the creaking staircase. They froze at the top, Stan with his hand on the knob of his bedroom door, Mabel with her foot halfway toward the attack steps. Then, in a flash, she whipped around and gave her uncle a tight hug around his waist.

"Whoa!" Stan grunted. "What are you doin', kid? Aren't you a bit old for good-night hugs?"

Mabel peered up at him. "Grunkle Stan, thanks," she said.

"For what?"

"For today. For being so concerned about Dipper today. I mean, I know you're not exactly crazy about having us over this summer, Dipper especially. But, you know, it was really sweet today, you all worried about him." She grinned. "Turns out you do have a heart, don't you, Tin Man?"

Stan groaned and peeled his niece's arms off from his waist. "Don't get used to it," he grumbled. "It's a one-time thing. Special circumstances, you know."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Sure, Grunkle Stan, whatever you say. And, don't worry. We'll find him. I know we will." She turned toward the attic, but stopped when Stan said her name. "Yeah?" she replied.

Her uncle allowed her a half-smile and said, "Don't let the bed-bugs devour you in your sleep."

Mabel nodded and returned the smile. "I'll try my best."

* * *

A/N: A word of advice: next time you're out kayaking with your extended family, and you're wondering how best to prevent your fingers from getting badly jammed, thus greatly inhibiting your typing abilities, you should probably start by _not _playing some awkward combination of bumper-boats and jousting. I learned that from experience.

On an unrelated note, don't forget to review, favorite, follow, and tell everyone you know about my story. And I mean everyone: teachers, grandparents, mailmen, parole officers, friends, friends' parole officers, etc.


	15. Chapter 15

"Why, Mabel!" Mr. Mason said as he opened the door, a broad smile beaming across his face. "What a delight to finally see you again!"

"Hi, Mr. Mason," Mabel replied, decidedly less enthusiastically. "Sorry it's been a while."

"No matter, no matter," Mr. Mason said. He just the door behind Mabel as she walked into the house. "I daresay you've been busy. Any word yet on your brother?"

Mabel collapsed into the den's armchair with a heavy sigh. "No," she responded. "Nothing. And it's been days. Dipper may as well have walked right off the face of the earth."

Mr. Mason moved around to pat the girl comfortingly on the shoulder. "My offer still stands," he said. "If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all-"

Mabel shook her head. "No, there's not. At this point, apparently the best we can do is just get the word out. And that Toby What's-his-name from the one paper been on that. Seems missing person cases are really good for the journalism business." She sighed again, bitterly. "Glad _someone's_ getting a kick out of this whole thing."

She wriggled more deeply into the armchair, and Mr. Mason slowly lifted his hand off her shoulder. "Well, if comfort's the only thing you need I'm still more than willing to provide it."

Mabel smiled gratefully up at him. "Thanks, Mr. Mason. Although, that's not really why I came. I wanted to get some more sculpting done, actually."

"Ah." Mr. Mason raised his eyebrow. "I'm certainly glad to hear it, but are you sure you're up for it?"

Mabel nodded. "Yeah, I am. Grunkle Stan said it would be best for us to try to take our minds off of the whole Dipper situation for now. I've been knitting back at the Shack, but I've almost used up my full supply of yarn. And I figured, well, no need to leave have a fairy princess sitting around your workshop, right?"

"Too right," Mr. Mason said. "Well, you're still more than welcome to-" He paused with a cringe as he heard a muffled clattering erupt from up the stairs.

The sound seemed to have caught Mabel's attention as well, as she glanced up toward the ceiling. "Did you hear that?" she asked.

Mr. Mason cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, I heard it," he said. "Nothing to worry about."

"Sounded like furniture falling over or something," Mabel said. "Should we check on it?"

"No!" Mr. Mason said hastily. "No, no need. I've had a bit of a vermin problem upstairs, so I set some traps. That's probably what the sound was: traps being set off. Probably a rat, or a raccoon."

"A raccoon!" Mabel repeated, brightening. "I love raccoons! Could I go see it? Pretty pretty please?"

Mr. Mason frowned. "No, Mabel. Just, just stay away from upstairs, all right?"

"But why-?"

"I don't want to worry about you getting... rabies, or Lyme disease, or whatever those things carry these days."

Mabel let out a huff, but she did so with a small smile. "Fine, I'll stay away from the super-dangerous adorable woodland creatures. Is my fairy princess still where I left it?"

Mr. Mason nodded. "Hasn't moved an inch. Go on ahead into the workroom."

Mabel did so, hopping up eagerly and exiting the den. Mr. Mason sighed in relief and dropped into the armchair. He could certainly do without any more close calls.

* * *

Dipper's eyes snapped open and he lifted his head up, blinking in the little light offered in the room. With a grimace, he peeled away the paper sticking to his cheek, and frowned when he saw that the ink of the hand-written scrawl he'd been trying to read had smeared.

"Great," he muttered, tossing the now nigh-on-useless page aside. He had dozed off at the desk again. Not surprisingly, considering that nights on bare carpeted made it very difficult to get any semblance of comfortable sleep, but it made it very difficult to try to get any research done. So far, the books and papers left to him had yielded very little. He had managed to gather a very vague idea as to how the sculptures in the house managed to function as a single being, but was still very much in the dark as to the cause of it, let alone any means to alter it.

He pulled another paper from the pile on the desk, ready to dive in. This one looked more daunting than the last, as it was covered with circles and strikeouts. Dipper squinted at it. The handwriting of his predecessor would have made a pharmacist cringe. _Without the something something, it something that something something remain of something will something something to take a something of something._ He groaned and put his head down on his arm. This was futile.

Suddenly, a sound caught his attention. He had grown used to the house being as still and silent as the works of art that inhabited it- barring the few times a drawing would slip onto the wall to check on his progress- that any sound was news. And this sound was voices.

Dipper quickly pushed back his chair and got down onto the floor. He pressed his ear up against the carpet trying to make out what the voices were saying, but it was all too muffled for him to distinguish any words. At first, he could hear only the all-too-familiar drawl of Mr. Mason, but he felt his blood start to raise as he caught the sound of the other voice.

"Mabel," he whispered.

He sat back up. This was his chance. Just get Mabel's attention, and he was home free. The best he could do was make noise. He grabbed the chair from beside the desk and heaved it against the wall. He wasn't the strongest toss, but surely the resultant clamor would have caught her attention.

He kicked the chair against the wall again, then opened his mouth to yell out. "Mabe-" he managed to shout, before something clamped down hard over his mouth, and something else wrapped across his chest and neck. He struggled against it, tried to pull away, but it held fast. He could see the shape of a lantern swinging from whatever was grabbing his chest, and made the connection to the hunchback sculpture from the bedroom.

Shoot. He'd all but forgotten that any sound that got Mabel's attention would also attract Mr. Mason.

He struggled harder, but froze when Mr. Mason voice whispered into his ear. "One more sound, boy," the voice hissed softly, "and I snap your scrawny neck in two. Got it?"

Dipper immediately stopped struggling. This was a new side of Mr. Mason, one that sent goosebumps down his back. Up to this point, the house had at least maintained a pretense of affability, albeit a flimsy one. But now, all charade was dropped, and Mr. Mason was simply desperate to maintain the power he had. And at the moment, that power was Dipper and Mabel. And if keeping one meant having to kill the other...

Well, he had killed before.

Dipper held still in the sculpture's grasp, straining to hear the muffled voices below. All the while, the hunchback held on tightly, the hand wrapped around his chest slowly stroking Dipper's neck, gently yet threateningly. Had it not been for the stone hand clasped over his mouth, Dipper was pretty sure he would have gladly thrown up all over the carpet.

After a couple of minutes, Dipper could hear footsteps below, moving from the den into the workroom. The sculpture finally relinquished its hold on Dipper, and the latter tumbled onto the floor. He groaned softly and tried to rub feeling back into his face and neck. He figured some bruises were already forming.

The hunchback waited for him to pull himself back up to his feet, then nodded toward the desk. "Back to work, Dipper," he grunted. "And remember, _not one sound_."

Dipper shot the sculpture a glare, but consented. He picked the chair up off the floor, scooted it toward the desk, and climbed up. He leaned over the papers, trying to act like he was reading intently, while really just waiting for the hunchback to leave.

He waited until the door softly shut behind him, then dropped his head onto the desk and closed his eyes with a frustrated sigh. His sister, his way out, was right below him, mere yards from where he sat. And there was nothing he could do.

* * *

A/N: Guys, that finale. You all saw that finale, right? It's just, you know, _dang._ The whole thing was like, _whoa, _you know? I mean, really, _whoa._ Whoa. Man.

Sorry, it appears the animal crackers I'm eating right now are making me high. That makes sense.

Anyway, don't forget to review, favorite, follow, and eat a balanced breakfast!


	16. Chapter 16

"Mabel, you are not rowing!" Candy cried, desperately moving her Wii remote in circles.

"Huh?" Mabel replied, coming out of her abstraction and blinking at the screen that took up half the wall of Candy's basement. "Oh, sorry." She lifted her own remote.

Candy sighed, "No, never mind, it is too late now." Grenda grinned over at the two of them. On the screen, Grenda's Wario and the computer player's Dry Bones struck their victory poses, while in the background, a group of Cheep-Cheeps chased Candy's Toadette and Mabel's Yoshi around in their canoe.

"Sorry," Mabel repeated, for what felt like the fiftieth time since the sleepover had begun earlier that evening. Mabel's attention span had never been great, a fact to which any one of Mabel's former teachers would be quick to attest, but ever since Dipper's disappearance, she found herself experiencing more trouble focusing than ever before.

"You know what?" Candy said. "It is all right. We have probably been playing video games for too long anyway. We should take a break, yes?" She reached over to press the power button on the Wii.

"Aww, but I was winning!" Grenda whined, but Candy quickly silenced her with a glare. "Fine, fine, we'll take a break," Grenda grumbled. She and Candy both got up from where they had been kneeling on the floor and stretched their legs out. Candy took Grenda's remote, then Mabel's, and placed all three into the cabinet beneath the TV. Grenda then plopped herself down on the armrest of the lumpy sofa where the third member of their party lounged. "So, what do you want to do now?" she asked.

Mabel shrugged. "I dunno," she said. "Anything's fine, I guess."

Candy and Grenda shared a worried glance. They had both noticed Mabel becoming subtly more tired and irritable over the past few weeks, but throughout her brother's abscence, her mood had absolutely plummeted. Candy had put together this sleepover in the hopes of getting Mabel's mind off of Dipper, maybe cheering her up for a little while. But so far, it didn't seem to be working.

"Come on, now," Candy said. "Sleepover party games. We have done this before. How about we play Truth or Dare?"

Again, Mabel simply shrugged, her eyes still not having moved from the now black television screen. Grenda, however, nodded eagerly. "Okay," Candy said. She climbed up onto the sofa and seated herself at Mabel's feet; Mabel bent her knees in toward her chest to give her room. "Okay, Mabel, you can go first. Truth or dare?"

Mabel pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then answered, "Truth."

Candy grinned. "Okay, truth. Umm... oh, I know! Truthfully: if you had to kiss any boy in Gravity Falls, who would it be?"

"That's easy," Mabel answered with a small smile. "Mermando, of course."

"I thought he left Gravity Falls," Grenda pointed out. "He doesn't count. You have to pick someone else."

Mabel frowned. "Aw, do I have to? All the other boys here are so... you know." She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

"Not _all_ of them, right, Candy?" Grenda said, winking and elbowing Candy playfully in the side. Candy elbowed her back, not playfully at all, a reminder that they were supposed to _avoid _mentioning Dipper.

"All right, fine," Mabel consented. "Then I pick Waddles."

"Oh, come on!" Gremda said. "He doesn't count either!"

"He's a boy, and he's in Gravity Falls. You didn't say I had to pick a human, or, you know, humanoid."

"Oh, fine," Grenda said. "But you know, this game would be a lot more fun if you didn't look for loopholes like that."

Mabel giggled. "Your turn, Grenda. Truth or Dare?"

"Truth," Grenda answered firmly.

"Okay." Mabel leaned toward her. "Truthfully: do you think that Dipper is still alive?"

Immediately, the giggling that had permeated the game screeched to a halt. Candy and Grenda both stared at Mabel, open-mouthed, and Mabel unwaveringly returned the stares. "That's, uh," Candy said tentatively. "That's not really the type of-"

"Grenda picked 'truth'," Mabel interrupted. "And it's my turn to ask the question. Well, Grenda?" She repeated the question, slowly: "_Do you think Dipper is still alive_?"

Grenda scratched the back of her neck uncomfortably. "Mabel, I don't-"

"You have to answer. You have to answer truthfully. That's how the game works."

"I know," Grenda said hastily. "Yeah, yes, I think he's still alive. Of course I do. Yes."

Mabel paused, gazing curiously at her friend. "Truthfully?"

Grenda nodded her head vigorously. "Truthfully. In fact, I'm sure. I'm positive. He's fine."

Mabel turned to Candy. "And you?" she asked. "Do you think Dipper's alive?"

"Erm, actually, I was going to pick 'dare'-" Candy began, but at the sight of Mabel's expression, she hastily added, "but yes, absolutely. I think he is alive."

Mabel sighed and repositioned herself so she was once again lying flopped across the sofa. "Huh," she said softly. "I guess that makes two of us."

Candy and Grenda shared another glance between them, unsure how to respond to the party's sudden mood swing. Finally Candy cleared her throat. "Well, um, it is getting late," she said hesitantly. "We should probably go upstairs and grab the sleeping bags now, yes?"

"Sounds good to me," Grenda agreed, relief evident in her voice. She stood on eagerly from the couch, then turned back to Mabel. "I can grab your sleeping bag for you if you want," she said. "I can carry two, easily."

Mabel nodded her assent. "That would be fine," she answered. Candy and Grenda began making their way up the stairs. "Don't forget my stuffed tiger!" Mabel called after them, and Grenda shot her a thumbs-up to show she'd gotten the message.

The two girls clambered up the stairs and picked up the sleeping bags where they had dumped them in the corner of the parlor. Candy hugged her pink one to her chest, while Grenda hefted her own camouflage-print sleeping bag under one arm and Mabel's watermelon-print one under the other. She started to walk back toward the basement, but was stopped by Candy placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Grenda?" she said. "This sleepover. It is not going well, is it?"

Grenda cringed. "Well, I mean- I guess you probably shouldn't have made that popcorn earlier. Not very sensitive to Mabel's braces situation."

Candy glared at her. "You know that's not what I was talking about," she said.

Grenda leaned against the wall with a sigh. "Yeah, I know, I know." She cleared her throat nervously. "Uh, Candy, when Mabel was doing that Truth or Dare thing, did you- I mean, were you actually-?"

"Telling the truth?" Candy finished for her. Grenda nodded. "I do not know, really. I mean, I _want _it to be true, I _want _to think that Dipper is just fine, but-" She took a deep breath. "Well, it has been over a week, has it not?"

"But this is Dipper," Grenda said, as though it were all the argument she needed. "He and Mabel have been through all that danger stuff before, and they were always lucky."

Candy raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "So, you were telling Mabel the truth, before?"

Grenda thought for a moment, then sighed. "No. Sort of. I guess, I mean, luck has to run out eventually."

The two girls stood silently together in the hall for a moment. Then Candy shook her head. "Come on, we are keeping Mabel waiting," she said. "Let us just go back down, not think about Dipper, and try to have fun for the rest of the night, yes?"

"Sure," Grenda said. "Yeah. We can try."

* * *

A/N: I can't believe that on Friday, I leave for college. In the meantime, I'm trying to squeeze as much laziness as possible into what's left of my summer. So far, I'm doing a pretty good job. Don't forget to review, favorite, and follow! I love you all! You are all my evil minions, and together we shall take over Denmark!


	17. Chapter 17

Dipper stared down at his hands. His palms and wrists were coated in a layer of ink from all the time spent flipping through the papers from the desk and bookshelf, dark in some places, nigh-on-unnoticeable gray smudges in others. He had tried to scrub the ink off, but when one's only available cleaning supply was saliva, cleanliness was pretty much out of the question.

That didn't, of course, apply just to his hands. His clothes, also smudged with ink, had grown wrinkled and scratchy from sleeping in them and wearing them for days on end. And he realized he was beginning to smell; for once, he was relieved that he hadn't hit full-on puberty quite yet, or else he was sure the stink would be ten times worse. He had no means of discerning how his face and hair looked, but when he considered how often he fell asleep with his cheek pressed against the paper, or how his hair was beginning to feel greasy and stiff when he ran his fingers through it, he felt glad that the room to which he was confined didn't house a mirror. No doubt his own reflection would give him nightmares.

If anything, the ink shouldn't be too much of a problem anymore. The day before, he had finished combing through all of the loose leaf paper. Not that that endeavour had been particularly productive. The few pages that even made sense to Dipper were either only very marginally related to the matter at hand, or not at all. He had set aside the papers relating to possession or controlled animation, but it seemed like neither quite matched what Mr. Mason's house was. His own journal, too, had yielded nothing.

Now, Dipper had moved on to the books. He hoped that the information here would be easier to catalog. After all, the books were already sorted by topics. He had already started a pile of books that he knew from the titles on their spines would be useless, and now he combed through the volumes that remained.

With an ink-stained hand, he flicked through the pages of the book in which he was currently engrossed. The book bore the title _Vita: An Arcane Understanding of the Properties of Life, _and so far, it had mainly covered the topic of souls: why they exist, how they come to be, and what they do. An interesting topic, but the writing was dry enough that more than once Dipper found himself daydreaming instead of reading.

That is, it was dry and dull until Dipper idly ran his fingers along the edge of the thick stack of pages, and noticed that the texture changed almost imperceptibly near the top corner. He quickly flipped the book onto its side and peered at it, trying to locate the minuscule bump. What he found was that one of the book's pages had been dog-eared.

Carefully, Dipper dug his fingernail between the pages around the folded corner, and he felt his pulse quicken as he read the bold heading on the page: _Imbuement._

His excitement grew as he read the page's text. He only understood half of the words used, but he got the gist of it. Sure, he had received a laconic explanation from the sculptures of how the house had received life, but this book expanded on it, tracing the path of life from one soul moving into the unoccupied space of an inanimate object.

Better still, on the next page, in a bolded font that had been later underlined in pen, was the heading _Distillation_. Dipper leaned over, his breathing fast, and began to read.

_The innate properties of the life-giving soul rely heavily upon the stability thereof. In humans, the vitae animam (see index vii) is held secure within the confines of the navitas inherent in the human mind._

Dipper rubbed his eyes. The vocabulary in this passage seemed almost foreign. Frankly, he was beginning to grow sick of having to decipher and guess at everything he read in this room. Still, he pressed on.

_However, this navitas is not inherent within any matulla (see index iv) that had previously been inanimate; namely, the vita vessels involved in imbuement. Therefore, any vita formed or grown within the vessel is confined to its place of origin. Vita in these vessels, dubbed vitae fabrilis, draws power and life from its origin, rather than from within itself; more precisely, from its medietas animula (see index xi)._

_In order to effectively be released from its point of origin, the vessel requires the transmutation or replacement of vitae fabrilis with vitae animam, which is capable of surviving and thriving on its own accord, separate from its origin. Transmutation could be accomplished through the induction of a vivens catalyst, most popularly from the demivitae of plant life. Still, transmutation is temporary. Permanent distillation is only possible through the total transfer of a full soul of vitae animam into the new vessel. Replacement, then, is reserved for only the most desperate measures, as the only source of vitae animam is the human soul, extracted through sacrificet sanguis._

Dipper stared at the last sentence, his eyes wide and his stomach slowly tying itself into thick heavy knots. As foggy as the rest of the explanation was, those final two words were easy enough to translate. "Sacrificet", of course, could only mean "sacrifice". "Sanguis" sounded a lot to Dipper like "sanguine", a word that he had looked up after missing it in a spelling bee and found to mean "having blood as the predominating humor".

His translation ran through his head, as though it were being chanted by some tiny voice in his subconscious: _blood sacrifice, blood sacrifice, blood sacrifice, blood sacrifice..._

Dipper groaned and put his head in his hands. No wonder Mr. Mason's previous ward had suddenly refused to help him, if this was what he had found. It appeared that blood sacrifice was the only way to let the life here leave the house, and blood sacrifice was one thing Dipper wanted no part of whatsoever.

Especially since, he realized, if Mr. Mason found out and decided to go through with it, Dipper and Mabel were the only candidates.

He gulped. Slowly he realized that he was trapped tightly between a rock and a hard place. Either he tells Mr. Mason what he found out, and either he or Mabel ends up dead, or he stays in this stupid study forever, probably dying anyway.

Needless to say, neither option struck him as particularly appealing.

Still, there was a third choice. As much at it had appeared to be up to this point, the house was not impenetrable. Surely, there had be a way out, a way to get past Mr. Mason and all his precious artwok, perhaps even a way to destroy it. As far as Dipper could see, that was the only path that didn't end with either death or mourning for the Pines family. It was a slim chance, but certainly one worth taking.

With a newfound resolve, Dipper turned back to the books, this time searching not for a means to Mr. Mason's escape, but to his own.

* * *

A/N: Yes, yes, I know. A historical era or two has gone by since I last updated. I have an explanation though: four out of the five classes I'm taking this semester (the only exception being Choir) are insanely writing-heavy. I think I may have developed typer's cramp, and as you can imagine, I wasn't looking to spend my downtime making it worse. However, because I love you all so much, I got up the finger strength to write another chapter, and soon will do it again. The updates are going to be much less frequent while school's in session, but I swear on my hamster's grave, they will come.

Oh, review, favorite, follow, and give me food! (Seriously, I'm a broke college kid now. I get hungry).)


	18. Chapter 18

Stan sighed at the sight that met him when he entered the den. Mabel was scrunched up in the yellow armchair, facing the television screen where an episode of _Ducktective _played. This in itself was nothing out of the ordinary; what made Stan sigh were the details that had changed in the days that Dipper had been gone. Where Mabel would normally be on the edge of her seat, watching the show intently and laughing at every joke no matter how lame, she now practically folded in on herself, buried in the chair, her eyes glazed and tired-looking as she followed the duck on the screen.

Her uncle sidled up next to her, and she didn't look up. Stan cleared his throat. "So, uh... had breakfast yet today?" he asked. Even to his own ears it sounded forced.

Mabel only nodded silently in response. Scratching the back of his neck, Stan redirected his gaze toward the television. "Don't think I've seen this episode yet," he said. "Mind bringin' me up to speed?"

"This one just started," Mabel mumbled. Her face remained eerily blank.

"Got any plans for the rest of the day?" Stan plodded on. "You can have those friends of yours over if you want. Cathy and Glinda, or whatever their names were. Or, you know, take Waddles for a walk, go for a bike ride. I dunno, do a puzzle."

Mabel finally looked over at her uncle. "I'm not really up for it," she said, and immediately, she was back to watching the television.

Stan frowned. This had become Mabel's routine over the past few days. The alert on the TV had gone down within a day, and while the police assured them that they were still working on it, it felt to himself and his niece that there was nothing more to be done. The day before, Stan had noticed that Dipper's photograph had been added to the bulletin board of missing person reports at the entrance to the grocery store, most of which had been tacked up there for years. He'd felt sick to his stomach on the way home, but since they couldn't think of anything else to be done, an atmosphere of ennui had settled over the Shack, and Mabel had taken inactivity to levels that even impressed Wendy.

With a grunt, Stan straightened up, moved across the room, and flicked the power button on the TV. Immediately, Mabel's glassy eyes sprang back to life. "Hey!" she snapped. "What'd you do that for?!"

"Mabel, I'm sorry, but you need to do something besides starin' at the TV all day," Stan said. "Look, I know how upset you are about... you know. I'm still pretty shook up over the whole thing too. But all this mopin' around the house isn't helping anything."

"Grunkle Stan-"

Stan held up his hand. "I don't wanna hear it. Your parents sent you kids up here to get some fresh air, and you're not gonna get any of that if you stay glued to that chair. Now, go on, get outside. At least play in the yard or something."

"Do I _have _to?" Mabel moaned.

"Unless you'd rather dust the gift shop."

Mabel glared at him, but she reluctantly sat up. "Fine," she muttered. She heaved herself out of the chair and dragged herself to the front door as if each step were a chore.

When she reached the yard, the whole place struck her as empty and quiet. She had never noticed before, when she was out playing tag or catch or soccer with Dipper, how bare the yard was. Nothing to do at all. She let out a breath and sat down next to a circle of dirt, then picked up a stick that had been lying in the grass and began to doodle on the ground.

Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe she really just needed to get out of the house. Sit under the sun for a bit, let the fresh air cool her head for a little while.

She paused and stared at her doodle in the dirt. Then, growling frustratedly, she stood up and kicked at the ground, erasing her drawing. She hadn't even noticed that she had drawn the outline of a pine tree.

* * *

Dipper took a deep breath and set down the book he was holding onto the desk. He closed his eyes, trying hard to concentrate. Silently, his lips began to mouth words, and he smiled. He had memorized it.

A little while before, as Dipper had been frantically flipping through the books, looking for anything that might help him in his escape plan. Or, that _would _help him, had he actually managed to come up with one. He was stumped. At the back of his mind, he seemed to think that maybe something in the books could at least give him inspiration, but he tried not to get his hopes up too high.

However, that hope flickered when he picked up this particular volume. This book had no title, but the cover was instead emblazoned with a picture of what looked to be a criss-crossing eight-pointed star. It took a moment for that to mean anything to Dipper, but after staring at it a little longer, Dipper recognized the alchemical symbol for "creation".

Hands shaking with excitement, he had begun to flick through the book. Although it contained text, the sections were all headed with pictures. Some Dipper recognized, like the crescent shape that represented silver. Others, like one illustration that looked to Dipper like a stick-figure alien with an extra-long and impossibly-bent arm, may as well have been the scribblings of a two-year-old for all the sense he could make of them.

Still, the page that caught his attention and inspiration most was the one topped by the image of a simple triangle, a symbol Dipper learned by heart. The page seemed to be written in Latin, but Dipper didn't need to be a Roman to understand the purpose of the text box labeled "Incantatio".

After reading the text several times over, then mouthing the words to himself to make sure he had it perfect, Dipper turned away from the book and held out his hand. He took a deep breath, and then slowly, softly, distinctly, he recited: "_Clamávero ignis tempero flamma. Ego rapta exitium. Calor est gladium meum. Leve est scutum meum."_

He hardly dared to open his eyes, but he didn't have to. Instantly, he could feel the sudden warmth in his hand. He stared, awestruck, at the splash of light that danced on his hand. With his other hand, he reached down to floor and picked up a discarded piece of paper, then slowly brought it toward the flare in his palm. His eyes widened as the paper blackened and fell apart into dust.

Had he not been worried about attracting the attention of Mr. Mason, Dipper would have let out a whoop of delight. He had made fire.

* * *

A/N: Not much to say here, is there? Dipper's come up with an escape plan, and I think you've all pretty much figured it out. Thanks to everyone who's wished me luck for college! I'm enjoying every minute of it! Except laundry. Laundry sucks.

Well, review, favorite, follow, and more, all for the low low price of $19.95 plus shipping and handling!

Oh, and for those who were curious, that stick-figure alien thing in the book was sublimated mercury.


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